Good friends of mine have been working for the past two years to follow God’s calling for their lives to start a new church outside of Chicago. Just last week, we got Jon and Erika’s latest newsletter, in which which they usually talk about all the wonderful things God is doing in their lives and how their ministry is growing.
This time, though, he described a heartbreaking story of the tragic suicide of Jamie, a woman they had met soon after they arrived, and who was the first person they led to the Lord there. It was sobering and sad, and I couldn’t help but reflect on connections with my own journey over the past few years.
In the article, he described how Jamie (which is not her real name) was a typical suburban wife and mother, if there is such a thing, seemingly happy, with a full and satisfying life. There were birthday parties and cookouts and soccer practices and all the other things you’d expect. Things seemed good. Jon writes:
But underneath the pleasant surface, something else was going on. One night, after we had been over to their house for dinner, Erika asked me about her drinking. Later, in a conversation with Stan [Jamie's husband], we learned more about her depression and alcoholism.
Jamie had many troubles and an enormous amount of pain in her heart, and despite support from friends and her Pastor, despite treatment and counseling, she eventually got to the point where she decided to take her own life.
There are many tragedies wrapped up in this story, but one of the biggest is that even while she was hiding her pain behind huge walls, she was crying out for help to people who didn’t recognize it for what it was.
I could see myself in her story. I have had troubles and pain, struggles and sin in my life for many years—my whole life, really—but hid it behind that same wall, the superficial facade created to make me look happy and healthy and “normal.” No one else needed to know what was hurting me; it was mine to deal with alone. With a few of those I loved the most, I tried to drop hints, to let a little of the struggle leak out through cracks in the wall, hoping that they’d pick up on it. There were even times when I was more direct with a few of them, and I got friendship and support and encouragement and advice.
For a while. Eventually, though, they drifted back to their own lives, and I drifted back to my comfortable compartment hidden inside myself. I stopped “bothering” them, and they thought things were OK again.
I’ve never gotten to the point where I considered ending my life—not even close. But reading Jamie’s story has reminded me of two things that I need to keep active in my thoughts. There are people in my life who truly care about me and about the things that are hurting me. But they will not know about my pain unless I tell them. When the burden is too heavy, I can lean on my family and friends. In fact, God commands it:
Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2, NIV)
But even more importantly, I have to remember that the people I care about all have those same walls up. It’s not enough for me to be more transparent with people about my struggles, but I need to be on the alert for theirs. When someone seems to be in pain, I can no longer brush it aside or tell myself that someone else will handle it. I need to be bolder. And when I see signs of hurt in a friend, I’d rather risk offending them by prying a little too much than to find out later—or worse, too late—that they really could have used a friend to carry their burden a bit.
I look around now at the people I see every day, and I know that each of them carries a hidden burden, a silent cry for help. Some are small and some are large, but I suspect they’re far more common than I’m led to believe if I only look at the surface. My prayer is that I’ll be available and open enough to have compassion for them and to hear God’s Spirit when He prompts me to ask the difficult question: “What can I do to help?”
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