I’ve written extensively about the day I was supposed to die. I’ve told my story—the pastor who nearly died by suicide—countless times over the past several years. People are amazed, dumbfounded even, that a “man of God” could get so low that his desire for Jesus could only be equaled by his desire to end it all.
Today is National Suicide Prevention Day. So, I’m speaking up about my story once more.
People love to hear about the time Jesus showed up in that ICU room, during the days when I couldn’t feel my legs. They weep when I share about how God whispered to my soul, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Everyone loves a good redemption story. But what I haven’t talked much about is the day I started living again—the day I didn’t die.
Maybe I haven’t covered the day I started living again as concisely because it isn’t really a day, but a series of days. There have been 1,814 of them, to be exact. The first seven days were the hardest. Choosing to get out of that hospital bed. To take my meds as prescribed. Not to overdose again. Not to escape again. Not to run away to the grave and hide until Judgment Day.
Each day, I have to make a conscious effort to tell the truth. To go to therapy. To confess my mess. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the church doesn’t handle long-term healing very well. We don’t do a great job with chronic illness. We expect people to recover from a hospital stay within a matter of weeks, because that’s what we’re told faith is all about.
But the truth is, I have faith. It’s gritty and comes with claws, but if I didn’t have faith, I would have given a long time ago.