Sometime in the summer of 2000, after an extended period of me dragging around the house like my dog had died, Susan sat me down and said, “What’s wrong with you?”

I said that I didn’t know exactly.

She said, “Well, it’s obvious something’s wrong.”

I said, “I know. But I don’t have any idea what it is.”

She said, “You should call Dr. Barry. I think you’re mild to moderately depressed.”

“I guess that’d make sense.”

So, I called my doctor, whose parents were members of the church I served. When he answered, I said, “Hey, Doc. I think I might have a problem.”

He said, “What’s going on?”

“Susan told me to call you. I’ve been pretty down lately.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A couple months, maybe.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

And, of course, I said what just about everybody says after the doctor asks: “Why, if you’ve got an elbow growing out of the side of your head, didn’t you come to me earlier?”

I said, “I figured it would go away.”

“But it didn’t go away, did it? So, what’s going on, preacher?”

“Well, you know, Susan’s a nurse, and she thinks I might be mild to moderately depressed.”

He sounded a bit relieved, like he was worried I’d tell him I had an elbow growing out of the side of my head or something. Then, he chuckled. “Reverend, let me ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“How many preachers do you know who aren’t mildly to moderately depressed?”

Fair point. So, he prescribed me an antidepressant, and in a few weeks, I felt like myself again.