It was about 1:30 a.m. I was sick of serving Jesus and wanted Him to know it. I probably wanted the whole building to know it. Or at least might human nature did. Or my sinful human nature anyway. By the time, my friend Rudy chose to walk in on my two-year-old change tantrum, I demanded he leave.
I allowed God to get hold of me enough to change the demand to a pleading but huffy “Please leave"
These demands may have permanently pulled the plug, as other decisions I had made in favor of following Christ had put my friendship with Rudy on life support.
Serving Jesus Christ had cost me a lot. And it looked like it was about to cost me, my first male friend under 35 that wasn't practically family to begin with. I've always had trouble with guys my own age. And God had delivered me from to use me as a vessel for the Holy Spirit to help this young man in his Christian walk. In the process, we became close friends. But the Holy Spirit revealed to me that losing the friendship wasn't the core of the problem.
I've always believed the Lord has very special plans for this young man. I believed to a certain extent that I knew what they were. I was willing to do anything biblically appropriate to see those plans fulfilled and viewed what he planned to do in the name of God as having potential crush the plan of God. I didn't think much of a God who was willing to let him or even prod him to take a risk like that after leading me to invest my heart in this relationship so that this young man could be everything God created him to be.
Even so Jesus was still fighting for me. So I cared about the impression I was leaving about Him. The embarrassment of Rudy's appearance combined with the anger at God regarding the decision of the young male friend I loved so dearly created an emotional cocktail so intoxicating that I resolved that my life would be over by the end of the day.
Later, I told my caregiver "I don't want to live."
"I know," she said.
I said a few more things in between sobs. And she started crying too. But no phone call to anyone. She applauded my desire to get up. I was simply looking for an easy way to kill myself.
At breakfast, I hit myself over the head with a steel weight.
"Guess I didn't hit myself hard enough," I said.
"I'll hit you," my caregiver said smiling. "But not hard enough to do that."
I said nothing. I was going to find another way to exit this world.
My opportunity came when she went to the store. I went to the kitchen and found a knife. It wouldn't cut. I found another one. It wouldn't either. I was frustrated. I reached over and found what I thought were scissors. They wouldn't cut either. When one of my other friends walked in on me, I found out they were tongs.
I felt a mixture of stupidity and exaltation. Stupidity because I tried such a thing And exaltation because God was in control. There I was. Alive and out of options, except the best one—turn to God and let Him lead me through the pain if necessary. People around me panicked but somehow I knew I was going to be OK.
That night, I had another brief spell of suicidal thoughts. I called a crisis hotline, namely because all my brothers and sisters in Christ that I felt comfortable discussing the situation with were asleep, but this time I ran towards Jesus and not away from Him.
I'd been through worse and knew God was the answer. So what was the problem? Before my suicide attempts, I believed that Jesus loved someone else more than me. After all, He made me and some of my other friends put up with this person. And seemed about to allow someone He had opened my heart to love to enter the life of this other person who I neither trusted nor liked. God revealed self in two of its most hideous and insidious forms —fear and pride. Self almost killed me, but God gave me life.