And the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace
by those who cultivate peace.

— James 3:18

             What is a “suicide seed”? It’s not tabernacle vernacular. It’s a phrase I coined to describe this deep inner aching, this profound sense of emptiness, of lack, of loss, that has resided in me since as far back as I can remember. At various times in my life, the aching has become so intense, that I’ve considered suicide as a means of achieving peace, as an escape route. I attempted it only once, when I was an angsty, heartbroken young girl of sixteen. But even then, I didn’t have the extreme commitment to try any violent means— I tried to overdose on the antidepressant medication that I was taking at the time.

             Looking back, I can see God’s hand in even that. It is truly amazing how God can work all things for our good. The suicide attempt brought about my forgiveness of my mother, and that forgiveness allowed us to begin the slow and steady process of healing our relationship. I had moved out of my mother’s house when I was fourteen. I’d been though two abusive step-dads by that time, and I’d had enough, so I moved in with my alcoholic-but-not-violent father. Growing up, I felt like neither of my parents actually loved me. They divorced when I was three, so I never knew a stable home. I was angry at my mother for choosing these irrational, tyrannical men over her own children. I was angry at my father for choosing drugs and alcohol above us. I was angry at God for allowing me to be born into this situation and for, as I saw it, ignoring my many pleas to rescue me from it.

             But I forgave my mother, in an instant, for all those years of hurt feelings and resentment. I’d agreed to go to an acute inpatient psychiatric facility, to try to get “some help.” While I was there, I realized that I wasn’t truly crazy— I just had issues. My mother visited me once while I was there. The thing she told me that forever changed our relationship was this— she told me that she had actually been considering suicide, only a couple years before, living under the roof of my first step-dad’s house. What stopped her? She watched an episode of the talk show “Oprah” one day— “copycat suicides” was the topic of the show. She told me, she knew in her heart that if she killed herself, that I would follow right after her. And she was right. I would have. Her love for me was greater than her strong desire to escape her own suffering.

Her love for me was greater than her suicide seed.

             I broke. I broke down. I broke apart. My heart cracked wide open. As a self-absorbed teenager, I had been totally blind to the suffering of my mother. Her revelation rocked me. What if she had committed suicide? What if she had just left us all there, to fend for ourselves? What if I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye? I couldn’t fathom it. I knew how horrible it felt, to feel that way. I knew the shame, the anger, the self-mocking, the scorn, the unbearable heaviness of a choking sadness that smothers every rational thought. I had no clue that she felt it, too. I felt shame for not having recognized my mother’s struggles. But I felt a new compassion blossoming in my chest, too.

             We were no longer bound by the dutiful-but-detached hierarchical shackles of mother-and-child. From that day, we were bound by an unbreakable trauma bond of sisterhood. She knew what it felt like to be me. We held each other, as I told her how sorry I was, how much I loved her and needed her, and how much I didn’t want her to suffer as I had suffered. She then made me promise never to try it again, no matter what. I promised. And that promise has been my life-raft, has been what I’ve clung to when that old suicide seed starts ripening again. She’s gone now. Our earthly bonds are broken. But I like to imagine that I feel her presence.

             It’s been a rough few weeks since her death. That suicide seed has definitely been beckoning. But I take comfort in the thought that death doesn’t have the power to break a promise like that. Just as death had no power over Jesus. The grave has no power over those who believe, and I thank the Father and the Son for that.

Now since the children have flesh and blood in common, Jesus also shared in these, so that through his death he might destroy the one holding the power of death— that is, the devil— and free those who were held in slavery all their lives by the fear of death.

— Hebrews 2:14-15

             Postscript: I just got off the phone with a friend who shares this dark burden, this secret seed. She asked me a question tonight that I found myself asking God again, just last night, after I received some scary news— “What’s the point? What’s the point of all of this? Life just seems like one big episode of suffering after suffering after suffering after suffering… just a constant cycle of suffering.” Her words, an echo of the plaintive plea that I uttered between shower sobs last night— “I don’t want to be here.” What we really mean is this— “I don’t want to keep feeling this never-ending sadness.” But we don’t know how to turn it off.

             How to turn it off. That’s a crucial question. I met an inspiring couple, while I was in Utah last month. We’d all decided to try some of the tomato soup at a quaint little café along the way. (It was delicious). They asked me the basic questions— where I was from, how long would I be in town, why had I come— and at first, I gave surface-level answers. Then, before I could stop it, I heard my mouth telling them that I’d come there to start a blog that I’d been thinking about for the past year-and-a-half. They asked me what it was about. I sheepishly told them, “My walk with God.” I explained that I had only become a Christian two years ago and that many strange and wondrous things had happened in my life since then, and that I wanted to document those things. Their reaction was much warmer than what I expected— “Oh, how wonderful! So many young people these days are going in the opposite direction.”

             During the next hour, we dug further and deeper into each other’s lives, hearts, and heartbreaks than some people do in years of casually nodding “Hello” and “Goodbye” to each other across the aisle at church. I shared with them that my mother had just passed. They shared with me that their young son (twenty-one, I believe) had just passed. So, we had a grief connection. Their pain was palpable, but so was their unshakeable belief in God’s goodness, in His salvation, and His grace. They bravely shared with me that their son had taken his own life, after years of mental health struggles. They were God-fearing parents who loved and supported their children. Their son attended church and even helped minister to youth younger than himself. Their son professed a belief in Jesus as his savior. But he suffered from crippling anxiety and depression. Finally, alone, in a moment of quiet desperation, he gave up. A beautiful soul, but a haunted mind. How do we heal this darkness deep and wide?

             I don’t have an answer to that. As I told my friend tonight, I have to cry it out in the shower. I pour my heart out to God for a while— usually, only as much time as it takes for the hot water to run out. Then, I find something to distract my mind. Whether it’s reading or watching some cheesy romance movie or studying medical French, I have to heave myself out of the wave of roiling emotions or I’ll just keep getting sucked down by the undertow. Usually, like today, I feel better the next day.

             I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t ask to be here— I remind God of that, on the bad days! But then, there are days when I feel blessed by every breath that I’m allowed. When the warmth of the sun on my shoulders is more tender and precious to me than a thousand angel kisses. When the beauty of this wicked world threatens to overwhelm my senses, and I feel a euphoria, a sense of bliss, a calmness in the chaos, a deep abiding joy in the present moment.

I remind myself that I am a creature, lovingly crafted by a careful Creator.

             Think about it— how do you feel when you create something that you’re proud of? Whether it’s the perfect blueberry muffins, or a poem, or an art piece, or a child, or a song— you love that thing that you created. You’re proud of it. You want to show it off. How much more must our Heavenly Father love us, his flawed yet favored children. How much more must He want the best for us. Truly, He wants to heal our broken hearts. Jesus’s entire ministry was about healing. Lord, please help me find the words to spark— in my heart and another’s— a flame of hope, a flash of courage, a flicker of faith in a better tomorrow. I believe in a better tomorrow. Amen.

             If you find yourself contemplating suicide, please, please, please, reach out to someone. Keep reaching out until you find someone with a willing ear. Even if it’s a stranger on the street. Even if it’s a stranger on the other end of the telephone. The national suicide hotline is 988. Sometimes it seems like God is distant and deaf to our pleas— I know. But please, please, please just stick around for a little while longer. Let the wave roll over you. Let it pass. Then find one thing that makes your heart happy. A pet, a flower, a song. Just one thing. Breathe. Let it all go. Ask God for help. Yell. Scream. Cry it out, then get quiet. Wait. Breathe. Believe. You are not a mistake. You’re a beloved son, a treasured daughter. Cry it out again. Breathe. Believe. ❤