TIM E HOLDER

I know it will be difficult for most of you to believe, but I have not always been the serious, poker faced, brooding person who stands before you today. In fact, there were a few decades of my life when this deadpan and humorless shell of a man didn’t exist. When I lived in Nashville, from 1980 to 1990, there was rarely a stretch of minutes, when I wasn’t actively involved in some sort of practical joke, some form of tomfoolery that kept me almost always on the precipice of  trouble. Trouble, which, by the way, to me, were merely minor pesky nuisances, and certainly not a deterrent to the fun I was having.

I figure God has a sense of humor.  Genesis 1:27 says we were created in His image. And if we humans have the ability to see and express humor, then so does God. I drove everyone crazy. I never did jokes that would hurt or humiliate people. In fact, even growing up and all through college, most of the time my friends would come up with the ideas. And they always said, “Go get Tim.  He’ll do it.” And they were correct. I’m assuming it was my weird way of feeling accepted and one of the crowd. But, over the years, I’ve finally come to grips with the reality that i just enjoy it.

One of my first jobs in Nashville was as a disc jockey at WWGM radio station. When I say disc jockey, I mean, disc jockey. Put the vinyl disc on the turntable, set the needle on the record and pull the stop latch until time to release it and start the song. It was a gospel station, which only occasionally played music. Weekends, when I worked some, were mostly occupied with 15 minute to hour long sermons by popular pastors of the era.

The owners and managers of the station were wonderful people. But, they were not necessarily wonderful “cool” people, “hip” to new forms of Contemporary Christian music coming out of Nashville studios. While more “progressive” stations were playing Farrell & Farrell, DeGarmo and Key, Russ Taff, and Honeytree, WWGM was committed to Yolanda Adams, The Kingsmen, The Gaithers and The Happy Goodman Family. I kept trying to move them forward by introducing the manager, Lorna Harrison to Amy Grant and White Heart, but with little success.

So, as revenge, I would very regularly try to find ways to make Lorna laugh while she was on the air, this beautiful, Mahogany skinned, Jesus loving, sweet, lady, always perfectly fashioned and accessorized with a perfect radio voice that melted butter. I would stop everything i was doing to listen to her deliver the news. I would have been just as intoxicated if she were reading a stock market report from the newspaper.

WWGM occupied an older house in an older section of Nashville. It was two stories with the owners office on the second floor. Bedrooms on the first floor were mostly for administration. When you walked up the concrete step on the right side of the house and in the front door, you were in a large reception area, which I assume was originally a living room. The receptionists desk ran down the right wall so the receptionist could see anyone walking through the door to her left and the control room to her right. At the far end of the reception area was a huge picture window beginning about three feet off the ground, up to the ceiling, looking directly into the control room. You could just make out the back of the control panels on the floor and the disc jockey or newscaster behind the control panels, facing the picture window, therefore, facing anyone coming in the front door or loitering in the reception area. There were curtains that could be pulled shut if the DJ didn’t feel like being sociable. It was weird. I suppose this was arranged so that the disc jockey could see any artists coming for an interview entering the station, and could wave excitedly, setting the celebrity at ease. The curtains were usually open though, allowing us all some sort of contact.

My shifts were normally week nights from around 4 till midnight and weekends. And normally, I was the only one there. But, on this particular night, Lorna was hanging out doing some work and needed to be in the control room so she said she would just do the DJ stuff until she was finished with her other work.  So I was waiting my turn watching TV in the reception area. I heard Lorna saying on air that she would be right back with the news. Unfortunately, at that exact same moment, my ADD totally kicked into overdrive. I glanced over to the receptionist desk where my eyes landed on the receptionists extensive array of pencils and pens, methodically organized by color and length. I have no idea what came over me. But the next thing I knew, I was crouched down outside the picture window with a pencil stuck into every possible facial orifice I could find. I waited until Lorna was about a minute into the news cast before I slowly raised my head into view. I looked something like this. 

I don’t know. Maybe slightly reminiscent of a “Hellraiser” movie.

At any rate, the ultimate reaction far out did my initial hopes. Lorna was the quintessential professional. She never waivered in her ability to keep her composure on air. She kept reading the news as though she were a nightly news anchor…for about a minute. Then there was a long, arduously, painstakingly long pause ending with a stifled snicker, almost a grunt, flollowed by a button click going straight into a commercial for Joyce Landorf’s newest book, which, ironically, was titled, “Your Irregular Person.” Lorna flew out of that control room, alternating every 15 seconds from howling laughter and then trying to be firm. 

Howling laughter won out in the end. It always does. I think she gave up trying to do any work and we just sat around and talked for another hour between songs and commercials. Bonding comes in a lot of forms. This was a good one.

I’m usually a bit anxious in the moments before I actually go in for the kill with one of my practical shenanigans, hoping that somehow it ends up as a good story rather than me in jail or a bullet hole through a wall or my head.

WWGM was one of the first stations to connect to cable. The format changed so that it went off the air at 5pm and switched over to cable. I was a little mad about that. I was the night person.  In order to hear the station at night, you now were required to have have a cable hook up at your house and you PAID for the cable service. Who in their right minds was willing to PAY to listen to Anita Bryant, Evie or Reba Rambo at midnight on a gospel AM radio station? And realistically, at that time, the prelude to the techno era, no one did. NO ONE!!!

So, one night,  I don’t know what came over me. There was an hour long reel to reel tape playing some well known pastor. I wasn’t listening. I was in the reception area watching a documentary called, “The Secrets Of The Baobab Tree.” I was frustrated, feeling as though I was wasting my time being there.

When the reel to reel was close to finishing up, I went in and cued up Stubborn Love by Kathy Troccoli. I was strictly forbidden to play this particular song, even though it was off her first Christian album, because it didn’t actually say the word GOD anywhere in it.

Anyway, I cued it up. As soon as the pastor said “Good night,” I came on with a couple of commercials. And then I said, and it was like an out of body experience, “When we come back from the commercial break, we are going to have a HUGE contest, so stay tuned.”

My mind was racing as I thought of the possible ramifications of what I was about to do. But,  somehow I felt the punishments would be worth it and the punishments would be completely justified.

After the break, I went on the air and set up the colossal contest. “Okay. Let’s do an instant contest. When you hear the brand new hit single by Kathy Trocolli called “Stubborn Love,” be the first person to call in to the station.  You are going to win a huge prize. You are going to completely OWN WWGM radio. Yes, it’s true. If you’re the first person to call in, this station is YOURS!!! Just come in to the station Monday morning.  We will have all the contracts ready and you just put your John Hancock next to the space marked with an “x” and you will own your very own gospel radio station.” Then I went to some commercials and a couple of songs.

The palms of my hand were sweating as I waited for the song to end and push the play button for KT’s song to begin. I took a deep breath and I don’t think I released it for the next 4 minutes and 37 seconds. The song started and I sat there staring at the push button phone with all 5 buttons for outside lines blankly looking back at me. It seemed like forever.

Obviously no one was going to call after the first 2 minutes of the song played, so I was needlessly relieved. I got up and threaded the next 15 minute pastor reel to reel on the spindles. But, as the song slowly began it’s last chorus, I looked at my watch and knew there was only about 30 seconds left. No one, of course, was listening. Point made.

Then, at almost 4 minutes and 27 seconds, the first line lit up. There was no sound from the phone in the control booth, in case someone called while we were on the air. But, it was there. The steady blink of the silent yellow light was deafeningly loud to my psyche. I felt every pump of blood as it drained out of my head into my face and down into my chest cavity,  rendering me completely incapable of any rational thought.  My brain was no longer functioning as it swirled somewhere around the center of Dante’s third level of Gehenna. You know what they say happens just before someone dies. I literally saw my third grade class. 

My mouth went completely dry as I picked up the receiver and choked out, “Hello. This is WWGM radio. How may I help you?” There was a slight pause before the guy on the other end of the line said, “Uh, isn’t this Pizza Hut?” My body, which moments before was a 2×4 plank, slowly became a massive pile of poured out flesh. I sank into, and became one with the cushioned seat of my swivel chair. I was able to just mutter, “No, this is a radio station. And by the way, It’s 11pm. Pizza Hut closes at 10.” The phone went dead.

I must have sat there for a good fifteen minutes in the silence before I realized that it was, in fact, silent. I never pushed the button to start the next reel to reel pastor. But, then again, nobody cared. NO ONE!!!

Albert Schweitzer once said, “The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others.” And I absolutely believe he’s right. In fact, if we are to follow the example of Jesus, that was His edict from heaven. Matthew 20:28 says, “That is what the Son Of Man has done. He came to serve, not be served – and then to give away his life in exchange for the many who are held hostage.” 

I have found in my life and in our culture that it is much more difficult to ask for help than it is to give help. Most of us jump at the chance, if we are able, to lend helping hands to those in need. But, we tend to feel we wear a badge of weakness if we are the ones in need of help.

The judgement error I, like many others, have made is not asking for help when It’s  desperately needed. Three years ago, my water heater went out. Rain flooded under my house and blew the water heater up. I prayed and asked the Lord to help me out. I only told a handful of people. A couple of those people even offered to help get a new one. But, I resisted, knowing the Lord would take care of the problem.

A full year went by. I took cold showers, in the dead of winter, feeling every bit the role of a modern day martyr “for the Lord.” The good news is that I NEVER left the house not feeling totally awake. Washing dishes and clothes in cold water. For a solid year. Waiting for the Lord to come through.

I didn’t accept the help offered because I didn’t ask for it. How stupid is that? 

Finally, my brother-in-law, Jim, called and said, “Go buy a water heater. I’ll give you my card number. Your sister can’t stand that you have been taking cold showers for a year. That’s ridiculous. This is your Christmas present from us.  And have someone else put it in. Do NOT, under any circumstances attempt to install it yourself.”

I went to Home Depot and bought a water heater. However, I did not have them put it in. The heater was only $300. Having them put it in would have cost over $1000. So, I finally broke down and called my buddy Cliff Peck and asked him who I could call. This was Christmas Eve. Within an hour, Cliff and his son Beaux were at my house, rolling out the old heater and putting in the new one.

But, something happened after they left and all the power to my whole house got knocked out. I called Cliff back and he gave me the number of an electrician friend of his. I called Larry, admitted I needed help and he said he would come out the day after Christmas. So, I was out of commission for a couple of days.

My whole house is electric, so I was out of water as well. But, I knew help was on the way. Larry came out and worked all morning the day after Christmas to get my electricity going again. The whole time, I was really nervous about the cost. And when Larry was done, I grabbed my checkbook and asked him how much. He grabbed my hand and said, “Merry Christmas.” He jumped in his truck and as he drove out of sight, all I could think of was, “And to all a good night.”

I wasn’t even sure what to do first. Cry or go jump in the hot shower. So I combined the two. Best shower EVER!

This year, the week before Christmas, the water heater, again, started acting up. The belt on my dryer broke, and Christmas morning, I began making desserts for Christmas lunch and found the bottom element of my oven burned out.

I called Larry and told him I needed help. He came to the house and crawled under and told me the bottom element was burned out and exactly how to repair it. Again, he wouldn’t accept any payment.

I went under the house to repair the heater and when I pulled out the old element, I could see a lot of something white. I realized that my well water dumped a huge amount of calcium into the heater and the chunks of white powder are what burned the element out.

I called Larry back and he gave me the number of a plumber. I called Mitch and told him I needed help. He told me he would leave a piece of pipe out by the gate of his business that I could tape to a dry vac and vacuum out the deposits. And he didn’t charge me for the pipe.

It took me a couple of hours, but I was able to vacuum out most of  the sediment and replace the element. I went to a parts store off of University and told the guy I needed help and I got a belt for the dryer. I replaced it and it broke in the first cycle, possibly because I put it on backwards. Maybe.  I went and got another one and a couple of other parts. The guy said, “I want to help you. I’m only charging you wholesale for these. I replaced those parts and at the same time, got a new element for the oven. So, all is well right now.

I’m learning that asking for help isn’t weakness, it’s wisdom. Seeking help is the best way I can take care of myself. And there are obvious consequences in not seeking help.

Back in the 80’s, I worked at a restaurant in Nashville called Dalt’s. It was THE place to be “seen” back in the day. Everyone hung out there. Country stars and contemporary Christian stars. It was the golden years. The restaurant is still there. And when I visit Nashville, I always stop by to see how it’s changed. Great memories. I could fill a book with the stories of our escapades. And fortunately, thanks to social media, I still get to be in touch with many of the folks I worked with.

One of my favorite memories is tied to the idea that it’s always a good idea to accept help when it’s offered.

We usually started the day with a 10 person wait staff. As the day progressed past lunch rush, or supper rush, we would OTLE. That stood for Option To Leave Early. The manager used this option to have servers leave, beginning with station 10 and working down toward section 1, which was always the shift leader. It was the shift leaders duty to make sure every person leaving did their OTLE duties, which included stocking and cleaning, getting everything ready for the next shift.

One particular night, we OTLE’d down to 2 servers. I was section 3 so I just finished my shift. It was about 10:30 at night. We closed at midnight. So that left only two servers on the floor, which was fine because at that point, on a weeknight, having a rush was a rarity. I, having just clocked out, sat down to order my late night meal and sat at our customary booth to sit, which was booth 10. It was directly across the aisle from the expediter counter where salads were made.

Steve Ford and Cindy Johnson were the only 2 servers left on the floor, Steve being shift leader. He knew everything was done so the last hour and a half would be smooth sailing.

It was one of Cindy’s first nights back after being gone for a few months. One night, after closing, Cindy was on her way home from work and was involved in a horrible car accident just a block or so from the restaurant.  Her jaw was broken, both bones in one of her arms were broken and her kneecap was crushed. She was literally pinned together. So, after being gone for several weeks, she was definitely proceeding on this night with great caution.

My food came out and I was enjoying my rest time when a party of 7 came in. They were seated at booth #14. And Steve decided to take the table.

Usually, when people came in that late, they just wanted appetizers and drinks, maybe a burger and fries. But, no. All of these people wanted full dinners, all of which included dinner salads.

Steve came to the front and turned in the order. He then turned around to the salad station and proceeded to make 7 dinner salads. I can’t remember what Cindy was doing at the time, so I told Steve I could help hm carry the salads to the table. Because we all took pride in how much we, at Dalt’s, could carry, and because Steve was tall with long arms, he said he could handle it.

I watched him prepare 7 bowls of salad, made up of salad mix, egg, cheese, bacon, tomato wedges and dressing, stack 4 of them all the way up his arm above his elbow, perch one on his other wrist and balance 2 others between his fingers. I was impressed.

Carrying them with great aplomb, Steve walked around the counter, past me at booth 10, whisk around between booths 11 and 30 and fell flat on his back. I was excruciatingly proud of myself for not guffawing.

This was salads 1-7.

Steve picked himself up and walked back to the counter. His face was beet red, so I chose to remain silent, for a second or two. A busboy was already sweeping up the piles of salad between booths 11 and 30.

Salads remade, I again asked if he wanted me to help him. It was now a point of pride for Steve. “NO. I got it.”

This is where my memory is a bit fuzzy. After talking to Steve and Cindy, they remember that Cindy was involved in this fall.  Steve gathered up what was left of his composure and the salads in the same arrangement as before, Cindy grabbed a couple of them from him and they walked around the counter, past me at booth 10, attempted the whisk between booths 11 and 30, and began the descent.

I think Steve thought if he bent his knees and went into a knee-dip position he would be saved. Even planting one elbow over the booth 30 railing, but to no avail. Unfortunately, gravity eventually won out and he sat squarely and, I’m sure, less gracefully than he imagined, on his rear end. Cindy continuing at a full gait, promptly sat right on top of him.

Cindy managed to stand up fairly quickly and Steve jumped up, salad hanging precariously from his apron pocket and stormed back to the counter.

This was salads 8-14.

He acquiesced to yell, “Help on a run.”  It really didn’t matter.  Cindy was already standing directly behind him.  She stood serenely and sweetly by as Steve prepared yet another 7 salads. It was obvious that he was getting help this time, whether he wanted it or not.

As soon as the salads were made, Cindy grabbed up 3 of them and Steve got the other 4, and off they went. They rounded the counter, Steve in the lead, Cindy, safely behind him, passed me at booth 10 and whisked around the corner between booths 11 and 30.

This time, this time,he appeared to be on a treadmill a few steps before he fell face first. And as he fell, his leg hit Cindy, who fell directly on top of him. There was a garden of salad in all directions.

My first feeling was horror because of Cindy’s injuries. So I jumped up and helped her to her feet as Steve, arms and legs flailing, startlingly good impression of an upside down turtle, trying desperately to right itself.

This was salads 15-21.

As soon as I knew Cindy was not hurt, I saw Steve, once again at the counter. It was no longer a look of determination, or even embarrassment, It was more resignation. Like he was caught in some Groundhog Day time loop, and was certain he would spend all of eternity making the same 7 salads.

But, finally, with salads in tow, he changed direction and carried the salads through the bar and around the host stand to get to booth 14 and safely deliver what became known as…

“The Night Of The 28 Salads.”

Just as soon as the bedeviled greenery was set in front of the now starving patrons at booth 14, booth 13 was set by the host with 4 new customers.

Steve, being as gracious as possible under the circumstances, took their order. They all wanted dinners…with dinner salads. Only because he was asked, Steve fearfully rattled off the different dressings, “French, Italian, Blue Cheese, Ranch, Caesar, Thousand Island and Vinegar and Oil.” One of the patrons innocently asked, “How’s the Italian?”

Without a seconds hesitation, Steve, I imagine chin quivering, muttered, “Slippery.”

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook recently that conveyed my life in an extraordinarily powerful way. I reposted it on my page. It was a black and white sketch drawing of a scruffy bearded, young man’s profile. He wore a wide, toothy grinned, squinty, wrinkle-eyed, joyous laugh. Maybe he was watching something hilarious on TV, or listening to a friend retelling a story about falling on an icy sidewalk, or remembering a practical joke that worked. Whatever the reason, he was wearing on his face what he wanted others to see and believe. 

There was also a gut wrenching cutaway of the side of his head, showing what was going on internally. The real “him.” It was a little boy, crouched down against a wall, barefooted, knees protectively pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them and his head lowered into his arms, hiding, buried in his aloneness. On the floor beside him, Leaning against him, as if clinging for dear life, was his teddy bear. 

I have posted a lot of stuff over the years on Facebook. And occasionally people will find those posts funny enough, or worthy enough to share. This picture, promoting mental health awareness got an exceptional response, It received a bunch of “likes.” But, what surprised me was the 180 people who felt the message important enough to “share.” That’s pretty dramatic. I don’t know how many of those 180 have family or friends who struggle with depression, or if they, themselves combat this insidious disorder. 

Whatever the reason, I believe there is a different story for every person who struggles. And they are, every single one of them, important and meaningful. And for that reason, I feel compelled to open up about my own personal albatross.

In 1798, the longest poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge was published. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” In the story, an albatross leads a ship stuck in ice out of a dangerous, deadly area. The storyteller, for some idiotic reason, kills the bird with a bow. The crew becomes so angry they force him to wear the dead bird around his neck. Thus, began the legend that albatrosses are, metaphorically, a psychological burden that feels like a curse. However, Albatrosses are, in fact, majestic birds with wingspans sometimes up to 10 feet and live as much as 50 years. They are extremely social and have strong communities. My second favorite bird. My favorite being hummingbirds, which are substantially smaller. And don’t live nearly as long. But, I digress. The point is that in the story, the act of killing the bird became synonymous with a burden to be carried.

I don’t remember a time when depression hasn’t been a huge part of my life. My battle. My thorn. My mountain. In this one area of my life God has been merciful, but quiet. My days are pretty much a normal routine for me. I work, I go to a prison for ministry once a week, I go to church, and the rest of the time, I sleep. I sleep a lot. Every night when I get home from work, I plan for tomorrow. I will wake up, I will clean house, do laundry. I will spend time writing. I take my vitamins. And every morning I wake up with a heaviness in my chest and a dark, black cloud just below ceiling level. And I am filled with anxiety and depression and fear that the cloud will burst at any second. And so I go back to sleep. My dreams are always stress and anxiety driven. I force myself to get out of bed every morning and take the dogs for their morning constitutional, feed them, maybe eat a little breakfast, maybe, and then crawl back into bed and sleep until I’ll be late for work if I don’t take a shower and go. It is not laziness. It is not a lack of desire to be motivated. It is not a lack of positive thinking. It’s not even a lack of spiritual health. I spend time with the Lord every single day. I love being with Him. My rock who I know understands. I often pray Psalm 61 “God, listen to me shout, bend an ear to my prayer. When I’m far from anywhere, down to my last gasp, I call out, “Guide me up High Rock Mountain!”

I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want people thinking I’m attempting to elicit pity or sympathy. In fact, I can’t stand that thought. I would far rather carry it alone than burden anyone else with it. And why is that? I want people to know me as a lighthearted, laughing, joyful, loving, devoted to friends and Jesus guy. After all, that’s who I really am at heart. That’s the true me. And I have to remind myself that the knowledge of my disorder is what keeps me grounded. If I depend on my emotions, this disorder would overtake me. But, it’s not the real me. I have to remember and accept that my absolute best day will probably never quite reach most people’s normal day. My life is not filled with any less reasons for joy or sadness, anger or fear, or disgust or elation or wonder or surprise than anyone else’s. I have no larger or smaller life choices or problems than anyone else. But there is always the cloud. A heavy chest. Chronic fatigue. The wish, the desire that it would be easier. The prayer. 

I have a few close friends who I know pray for me. Those are the ones I run to when I have the slightest energy. I look for them at church or the grocery or anywhere. They are the ones that are important because they bring me moments of the escape into joy. If I can make them smile or laugh, mission accomplished. And they know who they are.  Many others are the ones who have been touched by depression in a personal way. Many have spouses or friends or family who struggle with depression. Many fight it themselves. Many have spouses or friends or family members who have lost their battle with depression or mental illness. And by the way, depression IS a mental illness. For several years, I tried antidepressant after antidepressant with no measurable positive result. One doctor, after testing, gave me a prescription for a  generic medicine for ADHD. Although I did feel somewhat better for a time, I suddenly found myself strongly considering taking my life. If I was in possession of a gun back then, I would not be typing this right now. It was that serious. I began to research the meds and found that one of the possible side effects was suicidal thoughts. And I remembered the psychologist asking me several times, before he wrote the prescription if I ever thought about “suicide.” I never considered taking my own life  before. When I read the side effects, I stopped the drug immediately. The thoughts of taking my life went away, never to return. Depression is so pervasive and overwhelming, I have taken the word “suicide” out of my lexicon. “My friend died of depression.” “She struggled with anxiety and fear.” “He just wanted the pain to stop.” And for the record, I am confident that believers who have desperately struggled with addiction or depression or mental health problems who felt, on this side of the veil, they couldn’t handle the pain of life any more and chose to go to the One who truly understands will be in heaven. A friend told me once that taking one’s own life is like showing up to a party where we weren’t yet invited. It’s called grace. When I as a senior in high school, we read a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson called “Richard Cory.”  Until recently, I never understood why it resonated, even then,  so profoundly with me and why I’ve remembered it so well for nearly 45 years.  Now I know.

Richard Cory

BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

I was diagnosed 12 years ago with a disorder called Transverse Myelitis. It’s sort of a first cousin to MS. The symptoms are the same, they just don’t progress like MS does. After doing research, I discovered that TM and MS are the two strongest disorders that cause depression and one of the major contributors to people considering, or succeeding in taking their own lives. Although, rest assured, taking my life is not in my thoughts or desire, I absolutely understand how others can feel so alone and isolated that dying is a much more comforting thought. 

I choose to live my life as an emotional, empathetic, compassionate humanoid. That’s how my precious Jesus, my best bud, created me. I also, on the other side of that same coin (sobriety chip), recognize  that constant knowledge of this disorder and the possible contributing factors is key to my survival. Knowing it’s there keeps me in the light. And darkness can’t live in the light.

There are specific things I will and specific things I will not do. I will continue the fight, even when I’m so tired I can’t see past the next hour. I will seek the Lord in all things. I will fight this fight with Him. He carries the sword in front of me. I will not listen or respond in anger (hopefully…prayerfully) when someone says, “If you just prayed more.” “If you found the right meds.” “You can be delivered from this.” “The Lord told me…” “It’s a sign of weakness or sin.” Those types of responses are ALWAYS said out of self-protection and lack of research or understanding. I’ve sincerely, with everything in me, tried countless times all of those things. And here I am. Still struggling. Many Christians throw “lack of faith” or “doubt” together as an excuse for depression. But, it’s neither. It’s real. And it’s pervasive in our culture and in our churches. And we must show mercy and compassion. And we must be aware of those around us. We must love them and move to keep them from isolating. And we must be vigilant to be accountable to them and hold them accountable. It’s not a choice to isolate. It’s a condition. It’s not a choice to feel afraid and tired and anxious. It’s a disorder. And it’s horrible. It’s horrible and it’s debilitating. 

I don’t know if it’s a life long part of my journey. But, I can tell you this. I know it’s not eternal. On the really hard days, I think of my future home. Isaiah 25:8-9 “But here on this mountain, God-of-the-Angel-Armies will throw a feast for all the people of the world, A feast of the finest foods, a feast with vintage wines, a feast of seven courses, a feast lavish with gourmet desserts. And here on this mountain, God will banish the pall of doom hanging over all peoples, The shadow of doom darkening all nations. Yes, he’ll banish death forever. And God will wipe the tears from every face. He’ll remove every sign of disgrace From his people, wherever they are. Yes! God says so!”

My heart is set on things above. When He calls me home, it will be a great day. The best day. The heaviness I have always felt my whole life will finally fall away and the dark cloud will disperse just as the veil is lifted.  And I will see the love I’ve waited to see all my life. The one I’ve leaned on for protection and hope and truth and answers and salvation. I will finally see my precious Jesus face to face. I used to hear and believe that we die alone. That is absolutely not true. I’ve never been alone and I will never be alone. The moment I close my earthly eyes, I’ll see the One I’ve waited for. Jesus. And then there will be all my friends and family who have gone home before me waiting at the gate. The joy I’ve longed for will be mine, because I am in the presence of pure love. The trivial, normal things that seemed monumental here because of this disorder will no longer matter. All the dreams that seemed impossible to accomplish here because of constant sadness and fatigue will finally be fulfilled. I’ll lift my head and breathe in the crisp, clean air of knowing what it means to be free of pain and sorrow. And I know that those feelings are no different, in kind, from anyone else who has given their hearts to Jesus. We will all be there together, laughing and praising and worshipping and working and living out the truest of dreams, truly, finally living. It will have been worth it all.

And I will fly.

On Mother’s Day, 1995, my sister Jacqui and I spent the day preparing a special gift for our mom. The condo she lived in was in a great part of town. But, there was very little lawn around her except for a green space that separated her row of condos from the next row behind her.

Jacqui and I gathered up two of her available kids, TJ and Tad, and we went to the local garden store. Mom has many, many gifts. A green thumb is not one of them. So, we looked for plants that wouldn’t take much work, but she could occasionally water and just watch grow.

We bought a “hosta, which I saw in a neighbors garden and I loved, and a rose bush and a few other self-sustaining plants we hoped she would like and not kill. We asked the garden specialists what we needed to build a garden that would last. And they gave us wise choices on how to proceed. We bought the right kind of ground covering material that would keep weeds from growing in her garden. We bought good soil. We put in a garden barrier to keep the good soil from eroding away during bad weather. And we spent the day, not knowing exactly if we were doing the right things, but hoping we weren’t messing the whole thing up.

We carefully installed the barrier in a ‘u’ shape backed by mom’s deck. We laid out the black material covering and cut holes in places we thought the plants would make the best appearance. We planted the “hosta” in an area that would get lots of sunlight. We thought it would have the best potential for growth there.  We planted the rose bush close to the steps up to the deck so mom would get the best view of the flowers. We fertilized the soil and watered all the plants.

We were all tired and sunburned a bit. But, proud of what we accomplished. And Mom, of course, loved it. And those plants did grow. Every couple of weeks one of us would go over and make sure they were watered and no weeds were showing up.

A team effort that paid off. The “hosta” grew and spread over much of the immediate area and was lush and green and healthy. So was the rose bush. It produced many roses over the years that mom would cut and set in a small vase on her supper table.

We were proud of that garden. So I was a bit concerned for it, some fifteen years later, when we were moving mom to a retirement village. You don’t leave something that you’ve invested so much time and energy in behind without wanting to know it will be tended to and taken care of.  The condo was already paid for, so it was no big deal to drive by every once in a while just to check on it.

One of the renters was an older lady who obviously cared for the little garden. Several years ago, when the garden was 20 years old, on Mother’s Day, I took Mom by the condo and we knocked on the door. I asked the lady if she would mind if I pulled up a bit of the “hosta” to take home to my house in Little Rock. She, of course said it would be fine. She noted that she didn’t plant it. But, she enjoyed taking care of it. The “hosta” was huge. Mom and I went out back and I uprooted a few small pieces of it and brought them home to Little Rock and planted them out front of my house, just under my big red leaf maple tree.

Of course, as much as we try to take care of our plants, we don’t ultimately know what the final result will be. Just keep feeding them well and watering them and watching for signs of growth. The “hosta” took root where they were planted and they grew well.

This past September, on Labor Day we moved mom to Fayetteville, to a great retirement village, where she would be closer to grandkids and great grandkids. It was decided to sell the condo instead of renting it out to help pay for Mom’s new digs.

It was 5 days before closing and I told Jacqui I wanted to get a few more cuttings of the “hosta” to plant in my yard. So, before going to her apartment to help load her up, I went to the condo, where no one was living.

I walked to the back and literally gasped. It was obvious the last occupants didn’t care anything about the little garden. They didn’t know it’s history. They didn’t know the work and love that was invested in years of taking care of these plants. To them, they were just any other old plants. Weeds filled the small area and the edges of the leaves of the once beautiful “hosta” were brown from lack of oxygen and nourishment. I walked around to the other side and saw vines growing out of the cracked, dry ground and crawling up the side of the deck. And I saw that the vines were completely wrapped around the old rose bush, choking the life out of it. Old food wrappers and plastic water bottles were thrown everywhere without any care for the garden  My heart broke.

But, just as broken as my heart was for the broken memories, so was my resolve to do everything I could to make those plants healthy again. I knew that in order to give these precious, God-created expressions of His glory a chance, I would have to move them to a healthier environment. When I told Jacqui I was going to run by the condo and get get a few more cuttings from the “hosta” she said, “Just be careful to make it look like you didn’t take any.”

”Okay.”

I dug up every last bit of that plant. There were empty plant containers under the deck with trash in them. I dumped the trash and carried 15 loads of “hosta” to the back of the truck.

I walked around to the old rose bush and dug it up as well. I was scared it would not survive. There was very little green left on it. All of it’s branches were dead except one. But, I remembered how we planted it in good soil and I hoped that those first nurturing moments, filled with love and expectancy would still be alive and kicking in there somewhere and wanting to survive as much as I wanted it to. 

I loaded it all in the truck and went to mom’s apartment and helped my family pack up all of mom’s belongings, hugged all my family as they rolled to Fayetteville, gave my sister in law a bucket of “hosta” and I headed home.

I stopped at my favorite garden center and asked for wise counsel on how to best take care of my plants. One of the guys walked to the truck with me and looked at all the “hosta” containers. He told me in order to save them, I would need to cut them all down to about 4 to 6 inches from the root. I needed to plant them just so the root was covered well by soil. Winter is coming and they are tender and would need added protection. He said the soil would be very important right now. I needed to make “super soil.” I needed to mix. equal parts of organic compost, or new soil, with older soil and some “Jump Start.”

Then he looked  at the old, gnarled rose bush.

I could tell by his resigned expression he was going to say there was no hope for it. It was neglected far too long. And he almost did say that. But, he added that because the bush carried sentimental reasons, the best I could try was to cut away all the dried up branches and leave only the one that was still struggling to survive. Cut away the dead ends of the root, exposing the meat inside. And hope for the best.

I took all that new knowledge and wisdom and went home. I cut the “hostas” and tore them apart and planted them, buried in new soil, out close to the other ones I planted a few years back. Within a week, they were all sprouting new leaves. And now they are growing like crazy. I know they will lose their new foliage for the winter. But, I know the roots are strong again and will flourish in the spring.

I was worried about the old rose though. I cut off the old branches that were no longer useful. I trimmed the root system so new growth could occur. I planted it just next to the steps leading up to my front door. I watched anxiously and waited. I kept thinking of the joy of family planting it together and how mom loved it. 

But, nothing was happening. And then, about a month  ago, I walked outside to check on all my new plants, and here is what I found.

Maybe, just maybe, somewhere in that old branch was the memory of what sustained it when it was just a small plant. It knew where it came from and couldn’t deny what it was made to be.  And maybe, just maybe, the Lord wanted me to be a small part in displaying His creation, for His glory. He is the God of resurrection after all. Something I cared about in it’s infancy, almost lost because of negligence and apathy by others out of my control, almost lost, but brought back again because I chose to make the first investment, and then the second investment. Not giving up. Even praying.

Not knowing how it will turn out is hard. But, knowing there is even a 1% chance of returning beauty makes the anticipation worth it. I don’t know what will happen through the winter. But, I know this. I will trust God with the outcome. I invested my time and energy. Not once, but twice. I did the work of pruning and eliminating the dead and dying branches that would do more harm than good. Teamwork planted and nurtured that rose bush well, not once but twice. And I will continue to pour fresh water and good soil  into it’s roots.

I am certain anyone reading this will understand the lesson. My sister said, “It’s just like us. God has to prune away all the dead leaves before real growth and life can take place.”

Take the time to invest in the plants the Lord places in your life. Invest as many times as it takes. Even when you’re not sure of the outcome, it’s only our job to plant and water. It is God’s purpose to make things grow. It’s a team effort.  Us, wise counsel and God. 

1 Corinthians 3:6-8. says, “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.”

I’ll continue to plant and water and anticipate and expect God to make that old rose bush grow as He wants. And I’ll continue to invest. Last week, when I least expected it, I walked outside and found, just at the foot of my door steps…  

In the third installment of  J. R.R. Tolkien’s epic trilogy, The Lord OF The Rings, Minas Tirith, the fortified capital of Gondor became the staging area between the forces of good and the evil armies of Mordor.. All was seemingly lost as the onslaught of Mordor rammed through gate after gate of the city. Gandalf and Pippin found themselves trapped inside the citadel and believed their journeys were about to end in death. Pippin looked up to Gandalf and said,  “I didn’t think it would end this way.” 

GANDALF: “End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”

PIPPIN: “What? Gandalf? See what?”

GANDALF: “White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.” 

PIPPIN: “Well, that isn’t so bad.”

GANDALF: “No. No, it isn’t.” 

Back in 1997, a group of distinctively mismatched men bonded together and began a journey of friendship that has lasted more than 2 decades. Our travels have taken us down different roads and our individual paths have been  rocky and  sometimes obstructed by paths of barbed thorns. Tim Overby (called T.O. to avoid confusion) is a pastor in Missouri, husband to a precious, Jesus loving wife and 4 great kids. Gene Nobles, who lives in Hot Springs and is in advanced stages of Parkinson’s, father to 2 awesome men, who Gene is extraordinarily proud of,  and me (called TIM to avoid confusion). 

The 4th member of our posse is Billy Borre. Before Billy and his family moved from Little Rock to Nashville, Billy made it part of his mission to keep the other three of us together. We set up a weekly time to get together and study books we loved, “The Ragamuffin Gospel,” “The Sacred Romance.” And we ate a lot of donuts.  We continued to meet through life changes, holding each other up, encouraging each other, sometimes hard conversations that needed to be addressed. But, we loved each other through it all. It wasn’t always verbally communicated, but it was understood that we would always be there for each other. There have been times of silence, as happens in most relationships where time and distance would fight against endurance.

Over the past several years, Billy suffered several mini-strokes that went undiagnosed for a long time. When it was finally discovered, damage to his brain was irreversible. He has vestibular dementia, which will only get worse and will eventually take his life.

The three amigos decided we would not let Billy leave this planet without us being with him. It was our way of telling Billy that he mattered and that he made a difference in our lives, an eternal difference. We needed him to know that he made an impact that would far outlive all of us.

T.O., Gene and I met in Little Rock and made the 5 hour journey to Nashville with very little silence. Memories of shared times together and where life and the Lord has taken us made the trip seem very short.

We decided to visit Billy in the nursing home where he now resides before checking into the hotel. We weren’t sure what condition we would find Billy. I spoke with his brother, Bobby, who is a champion brother, Billy’s biggest and most faithful advocate. He told us Billy has good days and bad days. His body has atrophied with little core motor skills left. His mind, although intact, is slipping almost daily. He remembers some things and people, and not others. So, we didn’t know what we would find.

We found the home, silently, apprehensively walked the hallway and into Billy’s room. He was in his wheelchair, between two beds,  with his head bowed to his chest. I was struck by how small and vulnerable he looked.

We stopped about 5 feet from him. I bent over to eye level and waited. Billy opened his eyes and glanced over toward us. He looked at me without recognition and I smiled and said, “What are you doing?” I will never, as long as I live forget that moment.

Almost in slow motion, his eyes grew wide as he remembered. He lifted his head and leaned forward, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  He held out his arms and I raced to him and enveloped him in mine and he said, “I love you. I love you so much.” He knew.

I said, “Hey, I told you I was going to bring you a surprise. Look.” T.O.  and Gene stepped forward for their turn for hugs and love. It was a holy moment. For the next 45 minutes, we felt the presence of the Holy Spirit all over the room.

T.O. asked Billy if he could read a few verses from the Bible. Of course, Billy said “yes.” Tim opened his Bible to Revelation 21 and read, “Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.  ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”

When Tim finished reading, there was a moment of silence. Then Billy looked up at Gene and said, “Gene, I will hug you now. God is going to make all things new.” Gene walked over to Billy and they embraced  each other. An eternal, life affirming hug, filled with “I love you’s” that, I’m certain, echoed through the halls and the promises of heaven.

We told Billy we would be back the next day. We asked what he liked to eat and he wanted Mexican and a coke. It was a plan.

Later that night, as we processed through our time with Billy, T.O. said, “The curtain was pulled back a little.” That summed it up.  I learned that day that looking into the eyes of impossible hardship is where I get one of the clearest pictures of eternity. We were reminded of 2 Corinthians 4:16. “So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.”

The next morning, T.O. worked on his sermon for Sunday. I am in awe of this man. The Lord has redeemed his past and made him a conduit for knowledge and wisdom. His understanding and thirst for relationship with the Lord is amazing. He remembers everything he studies. Somehow, I didn’t get that genetic marker. Every time I read a scripture, it’s like the first time I read it. Weird. Tim impacts thousands of people on a weekly basis. I want to be there when the Lord hands Tim the “crown of exultation.” All the believers that will be in heaven because Tim spiritually invested in them.

Gene and I spent time reading and catching up on where we are in life. Gene, most times, refers to the Lord as “ABBA.” one of the most significant names in how the Lord relates to people. It signifies a close intimate relationship of a father and his child, as well as the childlike trust that a child puts in his “daddy.”  And that is how Gene relates to his life and present condition. His Parkinson’s disease has left him using a walking cane most of the time and sometimes a chair to move about. His body moves with uncertainty. But, the light in his eyes screams of eternity and the joy of seeing his “daddy” for the first time, face to face.

These are good men. We are three amigos, who couldn’t possibly be more different. And we are bonded together, a three stranded cord that cannot easily be broken.

So, we made it to a Mexican restaurant, bought 10 tacos, cheese dip and guacamole. We spent nearly 3 hours with Billy and his “super hero” brother, Bobby. 

Bobby would say he’s only a regular brother. But, he’s anything but regular. He has sacrificed and been there every time Billy has needed him. He makes sure Billy knows he is loved. 

As we sat at the picnic table, Billy continually reached out to touch us, hold our hands and affirm his love for each of us. Later, we sat around Billy and watched as Bobby carefully, with great love, patiently trimmed Billy’s goatee. Billy, reaching up to hold Bobby’s arm and proudly look in his brother’s eyes.

And then, showing signs that he was tired, we helped him into his bed. T.O. got down on his knees next to Billy’s bed and asked him what his favorite Psalm was. Without hesitating for a second, Billy said, “Psalm 1.” and Tim read Psalm 1, amidst Billy’s occasional exclamations of, “Amen.”

And then it was time to go. Billy was tired and we knew he needed rest. I didn’t mention it to the other guys. but, I believe we all knew this would, more than likely, be the last time we saw Billy on this side of the veil.

We each took our turn bending down next to his bed and hugging him. When it came my time, I got down on my knees and took this courageous man in my arms. It was a fierce, life affirming hug. And he wouldn’t let go. he kissed me on my cheek and whispered, “I love you, Tim. I love you so much. I’ve always believed in you.”

When I let him go, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Billy took my face in both his hands and his eyes pierced into mine. Just at that pivotal moment, as Billy used his thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks, the veil was pulled back and my spirit gazed directly into eternity. I didn’t see a table of food or hear angels singing. I didn’t see a throne or cherubim. Those are surprises and delights yet to be unwrapped. But, I felt the love of Jesus, almost excrutiiatingly impossible for this frail human vessel to contain. Crystal pure. A prism of joy and hope and wonder and expectancy and I pulled in one last time and kissed Billy on his cheek and our eyes met again and I said, “Billy, if you happen to get home before I do, would you be standing there waiting for me?” His whisper was almost a shout. “Yes. Yes I will. And when my kids get there, we will all be together. And I’ll say, “See that man over there? He’s the reason we’re all here.” I said, “Yep, Jesus will be right there with us.”

Bobby walked us to our car and thanked us for coming. We hugged him good bye and quietly made our way back to the hotel.

Gene laid on his bed, weeping. T.O. was holding his arm. Gene thanked “ABBA” for this time and he affirmed both T.O. And me as men and as ministers. And then he said something I will never forget. As Gene lay there on that bed, his diminished body wracked with tremors, tears flowing freely and bravely down his face, he said, “Parkinson’s has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. His plan has perfect purpose and I am overflowing with love.”  I don’t know that I’ve every encountered such courage and determination through the storms he’s been swept through to trust the Lord so completely.

Hardship is part of our path to eternity. ABBA allows difficulty and loss in our lives so that we will continue to lean on Him, depend on Him, stay surrendered to Him. And oh, how much sweeter heaven looks through that lens.

The Psalm, Psalm 1, that T.O. read to Billy. “How well God must like you, You don’t hang out at Sin Saloon, you don’t slink along Dead-End Road, you don’t go to Smart-Mouth College. Instead you thrill to God’s Word, you chew on Scripture day and night. You’re a tree replanted in Eden, bearing fresh fruit every month, Never dropping a leaf, always in blossom. You’re not at all like the wicked, who are mere windblown dust—Without defense in court, unfit company for innocent people. God charts the road you take. The road they take is Skid Row.”

I believed we were going to Nashville to make sure Billy knew that he made a difference in our lives. That he made an eternal difference. It seems ABBA’s plans were far better.

I remember a line from Pretty Woman when Julia Robert’s character says, “The bad stuff is so much easier to believe.” And it makes sense that Satan would use the bad stuff about us to keep us in a state of feeling less than what the Lord has planned for us to be. And the enemy has done a masterful job of convincing us through media,  that we are not, and can never be the ideals that our culture has set up as symbols of success.

Even though we read verses that tell us we can praise God because we are fearfully and wonderfully made, (Psalm 139:14), or that we are the light of the world, and that we are a city on a hill that cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14). Or that we will shine among them like stars in the sky, (Philippians 2:15).  We can read the blessings from the greatest book ever written, and we can even believe them for others. But, sometimes, it’s so hard to conceive that it was meant for us.

I think it’s because we tend to see ourselves through eyes of betrayal and hurt and rejection, which forces us to  strive for approval and  perfection.

James 3 is the balm, the cure for this wild, wanton killer we all have,  called the tongue. James 3 says, “With our tongues we bless God our Father; with the same tongues we curse the very men and women he made in his image. Curses and blessings out of the same mouth. My friends, this can’t go on.” James goes on to make it excrutiatingly clear that if we choose wisdom, we must live well, and wisely, and humbly, and that a holy life is characterized by being gentle and reasonable, overflowing with mercy and offering blessings.

A while back, I ran into a guy I haven’t seen in a few years. We talked for a few minutes and he said, “You know what I remember most about you?” My mind began to race. What did I say to this guy that was rude or unkind? He said, “Once, you asked me if I would run the pro-presenter program for the lyrics at church. I was scared to do it. And instead of forcing me to do it by insisting that I COULD do it, you said, ‘you do have permission to say no.’ That has freed me up on many occasions to not be bound by my need to always say “yes.” What a small, insignificant thing I said. That became a blessing for this man? We have no idea how one small  word of affirmation can change a life permanently. The interesting thing for me is that a worship pastor for another church reminded me that I told him the very same thing. And it set him free to not feel responsible to say “yes” to everything.

Blessings are obviously a very big thing in the Bible.  When Jacob wrestled with God, Jacob refused to let him go until God blessed him.  “Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.” 1 Peter 3:9 

I wonder if there is a space between curse and blessing. If there is even neutral ground. Or if everything is either a blessing or a curse in varying degrees of power.

Sometimes, I may be walking down a street and see a child walking hand in hand with a parent and I feel a prompting from the Holy Spirit to pray for them.  And I quickly, quietly pray that the Lord would bless that child and place them in places where they will rise up to be world changers for His glory.  I may even pass an acre of ground and pray that the Lord will bless that place and consecrate it for his glory. 

And sometimes, we may give a blessing to someone that is a direct word from God, even if it’s hard to deliver, that will set a person’s life on a path straight to a deeper relationship with the Lord.

I may have talked to you about a guy I mentor at the prison I volunteer for. His name is Devin. He is in prison for murder. Although the death was indeed an accident, and because he was strung out on drugs and alcohol during his interrogation, his lies and deceit after the accident sealed his conviction. Devin wrote out his inventory when he went through a CR step study about 7 years ago.  Normally, at the most, a persons inventory can be 10 to 15 pages long. Devin’s was 320 pages long. He gave me permission to write his story into novel form. One of the chapters is very hard. But, I believe it was a divine appointment from the Lord, speaking directly to what Devin needed to hear the most. 

 “It’s all still pretty surreal to me, looking back.

Within my first week in county jail I was placed in isolation for observation because of my history of suicide attempts. This was all too much for me to withstand. I made another attempt at taking my own life. This is the one that changed my life forever.

Why would you ever put someone on suicide watch and provide the means necessary to kill himself? When I was locked down, I was provided all the amenities that the standard inmate is provided upon intake. This included a towel, a mat,  a blanket, and a uniform. An inmate on suicide watch is provided none of those things. The suicide smock and a hard concrete bed are as good as it gets.

I was on my third day of lock down, October 13, 2009. I decided that I truly could not take the horror my life had become anymore.

I previously told you  the story of two other serious attempts on my own life, all of which were by hanging. And all failed miserably.

I’m not sure why I chose hanging. Maybe it was all I could think of besides blowing my brains out. But by the time I made my first attempt on my own life I lost my pistols due to incidents like running up in peoples houses and brandishing a weapon like some sort of cowboy.

Plus, have you ever seen an attempted suicide by gunshot go wrong? I have. And Lord knows that’s no way to live.

Maybe on some subconscious level I felt an overwhelming kinship to Judas Iscariot. No loyalties to anyone except myself. And that in itself became too much to withstand. My literary style might lead you to believe that I am making a joke of the situation. Granted, some of the predicaments I have been in are worthy of being made a laughing stock. However, suicide attempts are taboo.

Without this particular incident, though, I’m not sure I would have come to recognize God’s true existence. I am like doubting Thomas. I thought I believed at one point in my life. Those days were long behind me. It was going to take me seeing God face-to-face before I truly believed.

And that is just what God had in store for me. I don’t remember a lot about the incident. Just tying the knot in the blanket. The guards left the food slot on the door open. I tied off one end of the blanket through the food slot to the handle on the outside of my cell door.  I tied the other end of the blanket around my neck and sat down on the floor.

Strangulation is an unpleasant way to go. But once unconsciousness comes and darkness slips over you, it is peaceful. It’s the period up to the blacking out that is unpleasant. The knowledge you are choking, that your body is starved for oxygen, that is the hard part.

As I said, I don’t remember a great deal past sitting down. I’m guessing in the process of choking I thrashed around and smashed my face into the wall. When the deputies revived me I had blood all over the place, including myself.

Yeah, I almost made it this time. I slipped off into that long good night, that beautiful darkness, only to come to surrounded by two deputies performing first aid.

The next thing I really remember is pulling into the ER and going through the front door on a stretcher.

I had been here just 10 days earlier with my girlfriends daughter’s lifeless body in my arms. My reality started truly caving in on me when I realized that the ER technicians were putting me into the exact same room she was originally in. They lifted me from the stretcher and placed me on the exact same bed she was in.

That’s when the collapse of all things temporal happened. I lost my bearings and began to sob hysterically at my recognition of this place. It felt like some sick joke being played on me. Truly, it felt like I had entered the first circle of hell. The one Dante forgot to mention. Hell on earth.

In my panic attack, I came to notice several nurses walking in and out of the room. The other patient who was initially in the room with me was moved to another location. My police escort and I were the only ones left in this room. All these nurses I noticed were huddled up outside the nurses station, which is right outside of my room,  all talking and pointing in my direction. Of course, they knew who I was. For a week I was front-page headlines, all over news broadcasts from Tulsa to Little Rock. The fact is, in a small town, news spreads like wildfire. And it burns out slowly. My crisis of faith began, my deus ex machina. 

A short, kind of portly man walked into the room and it was obvious he was the doctor. You can always pick a doctor out from a crowd of nurses. They display a certain “take charge” demeanor that gives them away.

This doctor had a very unpleasant look on his face though. It was not a look of anger or even of resentment. I couldn’t place the emotion tied in with his look, but it was obvious discomfort. I believe it was a form of fear. The fear of facing a monster. The fear Ananias had when God instructed him to go to the apostle Paul and heal his blindness. Even with God on his side, Ananias was afraid of a blind helpless Paul, because his reputation obviously preceded him. Such was the case with me. I lay handcuffed to this bed under the supervision of an armed police escort. This doctor knew there was something definitely not right. But he proceeded anyway and what he said to me changed my life forever. 

Now listen closely. I’m not going to get all “I had a revelation from God” or whatever. But that night I had myself a good old-fashioned “come to Jesus” meeting in it’s purest form. I laugh at Old Testament stories and the misconception movies like “The Ten Commandments” make about God’s voice. It is not some booming voice that comes over the intercom like an elementary school principal reading your daily lunch menu and saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. Not saying he can’t or he won’t go that route. But I have come to understand, for me, God prefers more subtle ways of communicating because that is the most effective.

I believe God sends messages through people just like you and just like me. So this doctor calmly walked up to my bed and looked down on me.  He said, “Look son, I know who you are.  And I need you to understand…it’s not your time to go yet.  God is not ready for you yet.  He has some sort of plan for you.  I do not know what this plan entails.  But, it’s obvious it does not consist of your dying yet.”  He also informed me that he went to church with Alexis’ family and that more people than I could conceive were praying for me specifically. 

To me that was as good as showing me the holes in Jesus’ hand and the wound in His side.  I know you probably expected some tunnel with bright lights and a booming James Earl Jones type voice.  And if you were, I’m sorry my encounter with my God has let you down.  It was not some ‘Wizard Of Oz’ theatrics. But I believe in the depths of my heart that my personal Savior knew exactly what I needed to believe.  It was Him.”

Devin is now a senior counsellor at the Substance Abuse Program at the prison and basically the leader over 4 barracks of inmates.  Next month, he will begin his 7th Celebrate Recovery step study since I’ve known him and has never, in those 7 years, missed one single class.  His dream is to one day finish his college degree, even in prison, and then pursue his master’s in substance abuse. The government has recently set aside money for select inmates to receive scholarships for college education. Devin has been told he is a shoe-in for one of the 4 scholarships for his unit. His goal is to lead others away from the place he has found himself and toward a healthy, deep and abiding relationship with the one who has blessed him, Jesus Christ.