My neighborhood
Arriving home from church around 8:30 on a Wednesday night. Noticing two police cars parked in front of a house down the street. No flashing lights. No other emergency vehicles. Just dark, silent, ominous police cars.
Ominous because I’d seen them twice before in the last ten years or so. Both times, the officers were responding to a suicide.
What kind of neighborhood do I live in, if there might have been three suicides in a small cluster of homes in just ten years? What kind of terrible, painful, unendurable suffering is going on here?
It’s an upper-middle-class development. Homeowners buy new cars, remodel their houses, and upgrade their landscaping on a regular basis. Pay hundreds of dollars a month just to watch television through cables and satellites and streaming services. Hire people to clean their homes and mow their lawns. Send their children to private schools.
Me and my neighbors, we have it all. All the money anyone could possibly need. And it hurts.
My response
I begin praying for the situation, whatever it might be. I know that a young man who lives across the street from the police cars has been struggling with depression lately. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but the fear and shock of what might have happened hit hard. My first prayers are for him and his family.
I also pray and think ahead about what I would say if it turns out that a neighbor's loved one took his own life. I’m not good at speaking off-the-cuff. I know the best thing I can do is listen, but I want to be prepared to offer a few words of sympathy and support. Not a memorized speech, just something to get me past that tongue-tied feeling to where I can maybe minister to a suffering friend.
I reflect on two ideas from my own experience with suicidal depression that have helped when I’ve talked to someone who’s lost a family member in this indescribably painful way. The thread that connects them is that we don’t have as much power over other people’s lives as we think we do.
First, people have a natural tendency to accept more blame than they actually deserve when someone kills herself. Yes, parents and peers can inflict terrible emotional injuries by their words and actions. Distant or harsh relationships, abuse, and bullying can trigger changes in the brain that result in major depression and suicidal thinking.
But a person can also have a genetic tendency to that same faulty brain chemistry, leading to symptoms right from birth or ones that get switched on by a relatively mild trauma. Someone without this vulnerability has the resilience get through the same kind of trauma without becoming suicidal.
In my case, my genetic makeup, combined with a period of unusual stresses, created a chemical imbalance in my brain that compelled me to indulge in obsessive thoughts of self-harm. I couldn’t blame my parents or anyone else for the depth of my gloom. My natural brain chemistry was at fault more than they were.*
I don’t have any formal training in psychology. I can’t analyze every situation to determine what factors, either in-born or environmental, lead a particular person to kill himself.
But the few people I’ve known who’ve blamed themselves for a loved one’s suicide were taking far more responsibility than the situation logically demanded. I can use my experience with suicidal thoughts to help alleviate any undeserved guilt that family members may be carrying for contributing to a death.
Second, people have a natural tendency to blame themselves for not recognizing when a loved one is close to suicide. But depressed people can be very good at hiding their pain.
I was. Partly out of shame. (What would people think if they knew what I was really feeling?) Partly as a way of coping. (If I acted happier, I felt a little better. This strategy has been proven to boost a depressed person’s spirits, but it can also be a function of unhealthy denial.)
I don’t think any of my friends or family members even suspected that I was actively suicidal.
In a support group for depression and anxiety that I was leading at my church many years ago, my group members were often smiling. They seemed so normal, even happy. I had to remind myself that they were hurting more than deeply than they appeared to be or they wouldn’t be in that room.
When someone blames herself for not realizing how much a loved one was suffering, it might not be her fault at all. That person might have put on a very good show of being okay, just a little down. It’s always easier to see the warning signs after a suicide has occurred.
I can use my experience with suicidal thoughts to help alleviate any undeserved guilt that someone may be carrying for not recognizing the depth of a family member’s depression.
(As it turned out, it wasn’t a case of suicide this time.)
My responsibility
My mind moves on from “What do I say?” to “What’s going on here???” In my neighborhood and my country.
We have so much. So much more than we could ever possibly need. And yet we’re missing something vital. More people are dying “deaths from despair” (from alcoholism, drug abuse, and suicide) than ever before. Even with all our material advantages, we’ve lost our sense of hope and purpose. How do we pull out of this?
I’ve wondered in recent years whether I (or any Christian) should live in an affluent neighborhood. Wouldn’t it be more biblical to give away more of my income and live more modestly (Matthew 19:21)?
I’ve been through some relatively lean times lately. I’ve struggled to pay all my bills. I’ve cut my expenses as drastically as possible.
I’ve looked into many options for moving into an apartment or a smaller, less expensive house in a different area. But God has locked every single door that I’ve tried. Instead, He’s provided for my needs.
Maybe I really am where He wants me to be. Maybe I can have an impact for good and for God if I stay right here. Wealthier developments can be the most godless ones.
About a year ago, I started walking in my neighborhood more often. I’ve met a few new families that way. They’ve shared some of their sorrows and challenges with me. I’ve struck up friendships with, and silently prayed for, people who support some of the most unbiblical worldviews.
Maybe I really do belong here. Maybe I can make a difference.
And yet I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to live among people who see Christians as ignorant haters. People who disdain the very idea of the God of the Bible. It hurts too much.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say when the conversation turns to divisive topics. I want to experience the comfort of having neighbors like the person described in Proverbs 30:8-9. Those who aren’t poor enough to turn to crime or rich enough to believe that they don’t need God.
And so I circle back to praying. This time for myself.
For the compassion and strength to share a neighbor’s pain without being destroyed by it.
For the wisdom and guidance to know what to say when awkward subjects come up.
For the sensitivity to the Holy Spirit’s leading to make small changes in my habits, like walking around my neighborhood more often, so that God can increase my ministry to others. It’s amazing how much He’s already used that one little choice.
And for a heart that truly desires His will for me even when it hurts, not one that puts a higher priority on my own comfort.
*For a compassionate, Christian perspective on the vast difference between normal highs and lows vs. the warped thinking of major depression, check out Why do Christians Shoot Their Wounded? by Dwight Carlson.
