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I lost my sense of joy. At first, I thought maybe I had just misplaced it, like my mind. Unfortunately, I did not find either of them in the refrigerator.

Initially, I thought joy was buried under the avalanche of grief from losing my son, Caleb, to a toxic drug overdose. In those early days, grief hovered, shading every moment.

Retirement added another layer. Did the retirement package include a sense of loss of purpose along with a newfound invisibility?

The first few weeks without structure felt like an extended holiday. Sundays came and went. The organization did not collapse. Others stepped up to handle the daily issues, not in the correct way I would have, but no one noticed. The institutional life went on without a stumble. Whatever!

The temptation to duck and cover in the dark side of despair can feel irresistible. Perhaps I might have succumbed if I did not have access to the theological and spiritual toolbox of the Christian tradition. Whenever I felt myself settling behind a boulder in the darkest part of the valley of the shadow, an ancient piece of wisdom seemed to appear, a small flickering candle in the gloom.

When medieval monks listed the greatest threats to a devout life of peace, purpose and holiness, they counted eight deadly sins. Acedia, like a gang leader, often supported and influenced the other seven.

Acedia is a malaise of the soul and spirit that eventually impacts the body. Acedia removes the colour from life, draining energy and flattening interest in that which gives life meaning and joy.

Like a cancer of the soul: acedia grows quietly until almost nothing feels worth the effort, and there is no energy to engage. The batteries deplete, with barely enough power left to roll towards the remote control and the ice machine in the fridge. It is a serious condition.

I feel the heaviness not only in my heart but in my legs. As the soul constricts, the chest tightens. Even breathing feels laborious. Lethargy and disinterest infect all.

Things, activities, and people that once brought joy feel flat, their spark gone, like a can of Diet Coke left open overnight.

People who mean well ask, “How are you?”

“Fine,” I would respond, because nothing was overtly wrong.  The bank account was not overdrawn – still some days left until the end of the month. On average, the children and eight grandchildren were dealing with the struggles of this time. The car ran, and the appliances worked most of the time. I had only gained a few pounds on my latest diet. Last week, I proved I was not addicted to Diet Coke by going an entire day without a can.

“Fine.”

Occasionally, I would expand my range of response and venture “tired.” But I soon learned that response invites either sympathy or an attempt to modify my life and calendar.

Explaining the impact of acedia does not make for a quick conversation. The work is hard, like pulling the tangled, unending, and far-reaching tendrils of morning glory from a vegetable garden. Pull on one strand only to discover it wraps around the other, which, in turn, has deep roots further back in the garden.

I miss the vibrant colours of life and resent the fading of everything around into shades of grey. Except for grandchildren, I no longer “get up” for encounters or experiences. A shared laugh, a kind word, or a beautiful sunset slips through the fingers like sand. Routines that once guided movements feel hollow and meaningless. Enjoying a sunny day seems out of reach.

In a room full of people, some force field separates from the laughter and conversations that once promised humour, if not the joy of discovery. “Oh, you play the bandora! How interesting! And do you dance as well?”

Acedia warps the lens. Time seems distorted; yesterday, today, and tomorrow blend into an indistinct haze. The present is endured, the future deferred, the past heavy.

The profound theological and ethical issues of these turbulent times demand reflection from a Christian perspective. Despite recognizing the need and importance, I feel no delight or desire to meet the challenge..

There is a verse in the gospel of Matthew where Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Try as I might to be a faithful pilgrim, my pack grew heavier.

Rarely does a single thread define the spirit; the different parts must be separated, like working out knots in a muscle. Pressing thumb to spirit, I work out the tension, teasing apart acedia from laziness, doubt, and depression.

I know I will get to a renewed sense of joy and purpose, but like any quest, there will be monsters to face en route.

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