Broken Dreams, On a Friend’s Suicide

This is a guest post from TheNorEaster, hope it blesses!

A TheNorEaster Post.

An old buddy of mine from high school recently committed suicide.

I cried myself to sleep the night I got the news, praying passionately and begging God to have mercy upon him.

John was the last person I would ever expect to take his own life. He always was quick with a joke, and his laughter was contagious.

When I got the news, I was fortunate enough to be with my best friend, who eventually asked, “How many is that?”


“And the people you were especially close to.”

“Mike shot himself, Ken’s two neighbors had some kind of ritual, Adrian stabbed his social worker to death to get shot by a cop, Judy’s killer hung herself in prison after beating her to death with a sledgehammer, Neal’s father-in-law shot himself, I don’t know how Kim did it, and then there was Britany, Terry, Nancy.

“And now, John. That’s ten, I think. It wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t so many.”

Each new loss compounds the previous ones. And I kept wondering when it all would end, when my grief would finally pass — when I could, at long last, get on with my life.

As I write these words now, I realize these trials are my life. And that the only way anyone can ever avoid grief is pure apathy.

I grieve because I care. And I mourn because I have loved.

If there ever was a way to love somebody without ever getting hurt, or burned, even betrayed — Well, I sure wish somebody would put it in The Suggestion Box.

I’d be lying if I said that I am not angry at John. He left behind a wife. Two children. But, I also know, from what I know, that John covered his own wounds very well.

Until the blood of his wounds soaked through the bandage.

It has been said that America is “The Land of Opportunity.” And we are taught to pursue our dreams with ferocious tenacity — be it writing a book or making music or simply starting a family.

In the midst of it all, we sometimes forget that life is not, at all, fair. That those who live good and respectable lives come upon atrocious times. And that those who do achieve their dreams — even one as seemingly simple as starting a family, like John — do indeed have their own wounds with which to contend.

As I consider this, I cannot help but wonder — What is the purpose of a dream?

To achieve? To inspire? To be rich? Or famous?

“Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave — just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”
~Matthew 20:26-28

God sure does everything backwards, doesn’t He?

So, is it just possible that the relentless pursuit of a dream is a symptom of our spiritual poverty? Doesn’t Scripture tell us to be content? And yet, how can we possibly be content if we always want to be where we are not?

I am very much aware that those questions do sound discouraging. And, in fact, they are discouraging — until we consider the truth behind Psalm 37:4:

“Take delight in the LORD,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.”

For the longest time, I thought that passage was some sort of trade off, that if I took “delight in the LORD” then my dreams certainly would come true.

But, I realize now that what I have wanted — and even what I still do want — is so very rarely what God wants.

And that is why, to be sure, that delighting in the Lord does not mean getting what we want, but instead means that God gives us desires in our hearts to serve Him — in humility, with gratitude, and, above all, out of love.

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”

And if my dreams must die that I may yet have a measure of greatness in the eyes of God, if I still must endure the terrible loss of my old buddy, if I need struggle with depression to run the race, if I must face my own foolishness in my fourth suicide attempt last year, if being broken is the cross I must carry in this life to see my precious Father face to Face…

…I’d say a few broken dreams cannot possibly compare to such heavenly glory.

“Sunset is Morning.”

Please check out TheNorEaster’s terrific blog at:

Surviving the Suicide of a Loved One

“I love you. God, I miss you. And I forgive you.”

~from the film Remember Me

“When I saw that scene in the movie, I stumbled out of bed and fell to the ground as my whole body trembled in anguish and agony — and I started and screaming like a wild, wounded animal.

It has been six years now since my friend, Britany, committed suicide. I thought, by now, I would be better. I thought I would have been able to let go. And move on.

At the very least, I had hoped that I would have felt the loss a little less now than I did when I first got the news.

I was wrong.”

Grief lulls you into a stupor. It hides inside you as you go about your business, working and doing the laundry and, Yes, even falling in love. You tell yourself, subconsciously, that if you’re not in tears then you must have moved past the mess. If you can function, you must be okay. Besides, you don’t eat out of cans anymore — and that has got to be a sure sign you’ve finally let go of your loss.

And if you say it out loud, you’re that much more convinced it’s true. I got over it. But when that lingering sadness creeps in, you’re right there with the excuse: Well, I’ll never really get over it until I’m in Heaven, but that doesn’t mean I have to spend all my time dwelling on it.

Those are the calling hours of grief, but you won’t answer the door. You’re scared to death of being weak, of being afraid, of feeling that way again. You were taught that God is gracious and loving, that He cares about you in ways you cannot begin to fathom, but the lies of a false religion have you believing that no gracious and loving God would ever want you to feel sad or desperate or crazy — to the point of falling to the ground in agony like a wild, wounded animal, begging Him for help with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your mind.

Like religious legalism equates the avoidance of sin with goodness, you thought everything would be all right if nothing appeared to be wrong. So you learn to speak casually of your loss. You dismiss your own grief. You learn to act, to hide. Your prayers start to sound like you’re talking to your Best Friend from childhood — whom you haven’t seen in years — but you have grown so detached from the Person you once thought you knew so very well that the relationship now lacks any kind of depth and every sort of substance. God has become a casual convenience. Because in the deepest, darkest caverns of your heart, you harbor a hidden resentment rooted in your loss.

And maybe, like me, you’ve screamed in tears of anguished rage as you ripped your Bible to shreds, only to buy a new one the next day because you’ve discovered — in that moment — that living without God is the one thought you cannot bear. To be absolutely alone in your pain, without hope, without His Presence, His forgiveness, and His eternally tenacious Love is an unspeakable horror. Nevertheless, you soon pretend such a moment never happened, stuffing it in the back of your mind like a distant memory. You can’t tell your friends about it because you know they’ll think you’re crazy. Worse, they’ll question your faith.  But you stay silent because you have enough doubts as it is.

Before long, the act becomes the reality. And you start to take a certain pride in what, you think, you have overcome. And every time that lingering sadness starts to creep in, you’re still right there with an excuse. You have become a master of self-rationalization, basking in the cheers and applause of your family and friends and church because your life is now a grandiose testimony to what, you think, God has done. But you don’t realize that basking in such glory is heresy, usurping the glory that belongs to God — and to God alone — because you want it yourself. It is foolish to presume this glory is somehow yours, as if you had earned it through your pain.

But, God won’t have it. The Lord of Heaven and Earth will not tolerate the lies you’ve been living in your relationship with Him. You are His child and you are His treasure. He delights in you in ways that go light years beyond your comprehension — and that includes making your life in a fallen world easy. Christ suffered, and you will certainly will as well. And it does not matter how fast you run or how well you hide. Even if it takes six years — or ten or twenty or eighty years — for you to realize that you need Him in ways you never thought possible.

You are broken. And that means there is no going back to the way things were. The loss has changed you. It has shattered your heart and bent your head and stolen every last ounce of strength and all sense of reason.  But somewhere, — somehow — in the midst of the mess, you found a faith so strong it defies logic and denies reason. You see what cannot be seen and you hear what cannot be heard — because you have felt the distant visions and echoes of eternity placed upon your heart. You can see through the storm. And you know sun rises beyond the dark clouds.

You don’t get over it. And you never do get used to it. The beast of grief you have kept buried inside for years will hunt you down and, without a doubt, leave you reaching for God in ways and means you never imagined. But you have now the one thing you’ve been missing all this time: a faith that has been shaken so hard it cannot be shaken. Even if God leads you to the floor crying and screaming like a wild, wounded animal — broken — you believe.

I have tried, determinedly and tenaciously, to give up on God, to forsake a life of service to our Father.  It just hurts that much.  It really does.  But, if I have learned anything in the past six years — it is, quite simply, that it is impossible for God to forsake His children.  He has pursued me through the darkest nights and my monsoons of tears.  And He will absolutely will not give up on you — ever.  And so it is with a sincere, agonizing gratitude that I offer our Father a sacrifice of praise:

Pstorm 243

The Lord is The Most High God!

He is bigger than our sins,
and greater than our troubles —

He who stretched the sky above the Earth
and set the stars in their place  —
He sees, He knows, He hears.
He watches, He plans, He listens.

Is the One who made the mountains
smaller than your very own troubles?
Is the One who carved the valleys
hidden from the caverns of your hearts?

Is the One who levelled the plains
ignorant of your very own despair?
Is the One who commands the seasons
unable to direct your ship in the storms?

Look up, you precious daughters of The Most High!
Lift your heads, you adopted sons of The Almighty!

Is the One who paints a seaside sunset
deaf to your cries of infertility?
Is the One who turns the Earth every day
blind to the pleas of your petitions?

Is the One who renews the trees each spring
paralyzed to restore your heavy hearts?
Is the One who guides the birds with the winds
silent amidst your anguished prayers?

The Lord our God is The Most High God!

He is bigger than our sins,
and greater than our troubles.
He sees, He knows, He hears.
He watches, He plans, He listens —

And He promises

“When everything is ready, I will come and get you
so that you will always be with me where I am.”


The NorEaster


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Broken Prayers From the Edge

I lock the doors.  Close the curtains.  And let God have it.

I clinch my fists in a maddening rage as my hands tremble violently.  Within moments, my fingers ache from the intense, white-knuckle tightness.  And my forearms cramp up.  The blood rushes to my head.  And my eyes burn and burn and burn from the tears.

I speak, then shout — and scream.

My voice becomes raspy as I rant.  And soon, my throat burns.  My heart is aflame with grief and rage, so much so that my ears can no longer understand the words coming out of my mouth.  Before it’s over, I will blow my nose several times and wipe my eyes often and much.

I am broken — and I am praying.

I start with the loss of my friend, JD, a man taken far, far too soon.  A man who left behind a wife and two children.  I tell God that I do not think it is fair for his children to grow up without a father.  And then, I ask God why He didn’t take me instead, that I want to be with my children, that I don’t have any here for me.

“All I do is suffer and I am sick to death of it!!!”

And then, I rant about all the believers — never the broken — who paint a picture of life with Christ as a portrait of perfection.  Their grandiose testimonies have made me feel like God has something against me, like grace is a joke for people like me because my life has been so hard.  My brokenness is not the result of one trial, nor one tragedy — but a lifetime of unbearable loss.

“And it just keeps happening!!!”

I rattle off the names of those I’ve lost in just the past five years:  Jerry, Britany, Virginia, Rob, Terry, Nancy, Leroy, Art, Kim, Greg, Melody — and now JD.  I tell God that I am the anti-Midas.  Everything King Midas touched turned to gold, but I feel like everything I touch turns to dirt.  I am cursed.  “God has raised His fist against me.”

“How am I supposed to go on?  How?”

And then, in that moment, all of my rage and all of my grief and all that I am burns and burns and burns for The Almighty.  I am a man of faith — and, even in the midst of this monstrous mess my life has become, I know that He could end every ounce of this despair with a simple whisper.  A sign.  A something.  Anything.

“If You would just speak, this madness would end!”

With the last tissue, I tell God that I am convinced He wants me to suffer — alone, in this maddening agony.  I tell Him that I have given up on Him, that I cannot take any of this any more.  That I am broken.  And my heart is dead.  My pain is too great, my anguish too deep.  And that I will never serve God again for as long as I live.

“I can’t do it!  I can’t do it!  I just can’t do it!”

Three days later, God spoke to me through a dream.

“In my dream, I had a vision…”

To learn more, read “Safe in the Mouth of Danger.”



The NorEaster