Header image credit: me // Featured image credit: Ivanić-Grad (freely available via Unsplash)

I get the appeal of suicide.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not suicidal. I have never harbored such ideations, and I feel safe in saying that I never will (by the grace of God). Also, my life belongs to the King of Kings; it is His to take—not mine—when He deems the time to be right.

But, I get the appeal.

I get being in a darkness so suffocatingly oppressive that it chokes out the memory of light’s warm touch. I get experiencing a night so despairingly long that you’ve lost all faith that the sun will ever rise again. I get feeling like your life is so burdensome and valueless that, like George Bailey, you think it’d be better for everyone if you’d never been born. I get being utterly and completely hopeless that life will ever get better that you’d rather it just end.

At least this life, that is. But thank God this earthly life isn’t the only one.

Trauma vs. trauma

Before going further, I want to make sure that we’re all on the same page in acknowledging that all pains, hurts, and traumas are valid, no matter how big or small. Some trials might appear more unpleasant or oppressive—“bigger,” if you will—than others, but such experiences are subjective. Because we’re all wired differently and have thicker skin in some areas than others, something that cuts one person deeply might have little impact on someone else.

It’s also a matter of the nature and quantity of the trials. Some experiences are profoundly and obviously painful and Traumatic: sudden loss of a loved one, abuse, divorce, a terminal medical diagnosis, etc. These are the big-“T” traumas (“Traumas”). The damage they cause can be devastating and the scars they leave can last forever.

But there are also little-“t” traumas (“traumas”). These things are overtly less obviously traumatic—a parent being out of town for a birthday, getting overlooked for a promotion, being excluded from a get together with friends, cancelling a vacation because you get sick, etc.—to the point that in isolation, they’d often be no big deal; you could easily shake off the sting. But, when piled one on top of another, they amount to potentially as much trauma as a big Trauma. It’s death by a thousand paper cuts.

And the worst part about these little traumas is how insidious they are. With the big Traumas, yes, each one deals considerably more damage, but you often know when and how the damage happened and can then find ways to work through it. The scars will likely remain, but you can learn how to move forward with those scars. But with the little traumas, the damage isn’t as clear; there’s no one event to point to. Each cut isn’t enough to leave a scar, but the pain is no less real. These are the incidents that tell a recurring story that becomes the prevailing lie of your life: you’re not worthy, you’re not good enough, no one loves you, etc. You can still learn to work through this pain, but it might take more effort to discover its nature and sources.

The Despair of Darkness

As you might have guessed from that tangent, my story is one of many little traumas. Again, each one on its own is pretty minor and could be easily shrugged off. But when trauma after trauma after trauma hits at the same hurts and insecurities, it really adds up. (To continue with the paper cut analogy, instead of a thousand paper cuts in a thousand different places, imagine a thousand paper cuts to the same place: each one may only open the wound a miniscule amount, but a thousand mini scules can add up to a full-sized scule.)

So while the things in this non-exhaustive list seem minor—some even might seem trite or petty—the compounded pain is real and tells a very convincing lie about my worth: that my best isn’t good enough, that I’m not enough, that I’m not as valuable as others, that I’ll always be second-rate.

• Being bullied in school—not excessively, but enough.
• Never really having a best friend. Growing up, those whom I considered my best friend at the time had someone else they considered as theirs.
• Being forgotten to be invited.
• Losing both a costume and a pumpkin carving contest within about a week, despite spending considerable time on both (way more than other contestants seemed to have done), with the end products being things I was really proud of and would have considered to be objectively wildly impressive.
• Doing really solid freelance copy editing work and getting great feedback but being unable to break into something more stable and reliable.
• Pouring my heart and soul and time and effort into my classes and delivering what I know (based on my experience and the science) to be exceptional workout experiences only to experience pitifully small attendance.
• Dealing with rather persistent and frustratingly and confusingly inconsistent gut health issues over the past several years despite making increasingly healthier lifestyle choices.

And to make matters worse, it feels like God is deliberately unhelpful in all this. He is the God of the universe Who cares for His children and Who can do all things, so why not do things for me?

Now I know that God is not a genie who exists to grant my wishes. And I know that life on earth will not be perfect. After all, Jesus promised His followers that they would have tribulation (John 16:33). But to get no rest from the constant barrage of little traumas? To have no idea what success tastes like? To spend my days continually expecting things to never improve—or worse, constantly dreading that they’ll get worse? And all while others seem to be doing better? (Not that I deserve more than others, because I don’t; but I also don’t deserve less. So why should I be the exception to the general rule that hard work and wise effort yield success?) It feels personal. It feels like He is deliberately withholding. As Esau cried out to his father Isaac (cf. Genesis 27:30–38), so I’ve cried out to the Lord: “O Father and the Fount of every blessing, do You not have any blessings left for me?”

All this would seem to be enough to make anyone give up, throw in the towel. So, again, I get the appeal.

But that’s not where the story ends. And that’s why I have a hope that defies all experience and evidence to the contrary. As Paul says of Abraham’s faith (Romans 4:18), it’s a hope against hope.

The Light in the Darkness

This life is not all there is. For those who trust in Christ, there is new life—eternal life.

“For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”
Colossians 3:3–4

And by the grace of God, I have that trust in Christ. And that trust gives me hope to endure through the trials and traumas of this life because I know something better is coming. I know that God has a purpose for everything in this life and is working all things together for my good (Romans 8:28), even when it’s impossible for me to see that.

I didn’t always have this hope, though. When I was a kid, I was terrified about the idea of eternity and the afterlife. Was I saved? Honestly, I’m not quite sure, but probably. When I was older, in my high school and early college years, I was still anxious about my salvation to the point that I would regularly re-pray for it because I was unsure that my previous prayers hadn’t “counted.” Was I saved? I absolutely believe I was. But I had no assurance about it.

However, once I finally committed to living my life for Christ and walking with Him, those fears and worries disappeared. Permanently. I haven’t re-prayed the so-called “sinner’s prayer” in I don’t know how many years, because I now know that I’m saved. And I know that I know. In addition to the countless historical and archaeological evidence that confirms the truth of Scripture, not to mention all the personal experiences of myself and others that confirm God’s presence and power (and, again, confirm Scriptural truth), it is the presence of the Holy Spirit within me that gives me this assurance.

“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God”
Romans 8:16

So, yes, I know I am a child of God. And I know that means I have eternal life in Him. And that confident knowledge has dismantled the anxieties I had and has given me hope for a brighter future, even if that brightness might not shine this side of heaven. And if I’m being honest, I have zero hope that it will. After all, just look at the rest of the sentence Paul writes in the above verse:

“The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”
Romans 8:16–17

But, look at what else he writes:

“For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.”
2 Corinthians 4:17

His Enough-ness

So, yeah, things might never get better in this life. And, at this point in my journey of despair, I have fully resigned myself to the fact that they won’t. But—and oh how God loves a good “but”, as highlighted in one of my favorite worship songs, “Oh but God”—when I get to the next life, it will be worth it. And I know that. I know I will get to that next life. I look forward to that moment when I will look on His fullness and lay my crown at His feet in worship because He is worthy. Because He is enough. And, man, do I have a great story about that.

I am, by the grace of God (credit where credit’s due!), not someone whose faith is dependent upon experience or emotions. I’ve always been more dependent upon what I know than what I feel. So even when I was younger, Scripture was enough to convince me. As I got older and more independent in my thinking, the internal consistency of Scripture and its historical and archaeological evidence have given me more than enough proof to remain convinced.

But being convinced and being encouraged are two different things: conviction is a largely intellectual matter (i.e., of the mind) and is based on evidence; encouragement is a more emotional matter (i.e., of the heart) and is more based on experience. In the midst of my perpetual struggle against the little traumas lying to me about my worth, my convictions haven’t been enough. Convictions give us faith, but they don’t give us energy. And I’m tried. I’m so tired. And I have been for a long time.

In these moments when convictions can’t energize us, we need the emotional, energizing boost of encouragement. In addition to being emotional, encouragement is inherently relational: whether it’s something someone said, something you read, or a favorite story about a hero’s actions, encouragement requires something someone else said or did to inspire something within you. And that’s what I needed. So I needed relationship. Specifically, I needed God.

A few months ago, in a particularly low few days, I was begging God for a miracle. I know that miracles are not and should not be the basis of one’s faith, but I wasn’t asking for a miracle in that sense. I was asking for encouragement. I just wanted proof that God was for me, that He was listening to me, that He would be willing to bless me.

Months prior, I had listened to a sermon wherein the pastor mentioned how most believers will have a few big miracle moments in their lives that they can look back on as clear evidence of God’s miraculous power, grace, and faithfulness. And that moment struck me and stuck with me because I had no such moments. There had been a lot of little God moments, but none that were big enough to sustain and encourage me through such darkness.

Chapter 3 of Numbers recounts the miraculous story of the Israelites’ crossing the Jordan into the Promised Land. The following chapter recounts how they took twelve stones—memory stones—out of the riverbed to build a sort of altar to commemorate the event and remind future generations of what God did for them. All my little God moments were at best memory pebbles, but none was big enough to be considered a memory stone. And it’s impossible to build an altar out of pebbles. So I was begging for a memory stone so that I might have something to sustain and encourage me. And, yes, the fleshly part of me wanted some proof and wanted a miracle.

Flash forward again to a few months ago, I was watching season 4 of “The Chosen” (don’t worry, no specific spoilers). Episode 5 emphasizes the Dayenu portion of the Passover seder. Translating to “it would have been enough”, the Dayenu is a song traditionally sung at Passover that recounts the history of the Jews and the things God did for them: delivering them out of Egypt, parting the Red Sea, providing manna in the wilderness, etc. After each stanza recurs the refrain: dayenu. The message is clear: if God had done only one of those things, but not the next (e.g., if He had delivered them out of Egypt but not parted the Red Sea), it still would have been enough because He would still be enough.

At one point during the episode, some of his followers do an off-script Dayenu based on their own personal experiences. I can’t even express how beautiful the moment was. And it wrecked me. To the point that as I was putting laundry away after finishing the episode and processing what I had watched, I just started sobbing in a way that I can only describe as the crying equivalent of dry heaving. The fullness of God’s love was pressing down on me in tender embrace, reminding me of His unyielding love and faithfulness and encouraging me with the truth that He is for me and that He is enough.

It was an emotional experience to say the least. And it was the encouragement I needed. And while it may not have been the material miracle that I was hoping for (job, healing, etc.), it was the spiritual miracle I needed (and had also been praying for): a shift in perspective. I finally had a memory stone.

Hope for a Better Life

While things outwardly haven’t improved much since then, and while I’m still struggling against the lies that my traumas are telling me, and while I still have no hope that things will get better in this life, at least I have a memory stone, a moment I can look back on and to assure me of God’s love for and faithfulness to me. It’s the encouragement I need to sustain me.

And sustain me it does, because while this life still has its struggles, I know God is with me through them. And more than that, God has promised a better life after this one. All thanks to His Son, Who redeemed me from my sin and death unto His beautiful, full resurrection life.

You don’t have to look far in this world to see sin. All the hurt and the hate, the conceit and the corruption, the division and the destruction—that’s all sin. It’s an infection that rots the core of every human. And while we all would like to think that we can cleanse the rot ourselves and earn our place in the afterlife by being “good enough,” no amount of good works can cleanse the rot. There is no “good enough.” Only Jesus was and will ever be good enough.

Let me explain with a couple of analogies. Consider someone born with a congenital organ defect, such as a leaky heart valve. They can engage in all the proper health and wellness lifestyle activities, from eating a whole foods–based diet to being sufficiently active to getting quality sleep; and while those things might help them feel good—better than they would otherwise, and, and maybe even almost “normal”—none of those things will fix the leaky valve. Only a surgical intervention can fix the valve. The same is true for sin: good works might help us feel better about ourselves and give us some sense of purpose, but they don’t remove our sin. Only the Great Surgeon can do that.

Or consider rotten fruit. As they say, one bad apple spoils the bunch. You can bury that bad apple with countless other good apples until you can’t even see the bad one, but that doesn’t eliminate the rot from that apple. If anything, it just gives more fuel for that rot to spread. It’s the same way with our sin: we can hide it with good works for a while, but the rot is still there and will eventually make itself known. Moreover, the good works themselves may only serve to allow the rot to spread, perhaps even becoming sinful in their own right. (If done for the wrong reason, even good things can become sinful, for “whatever does not proceed from faith is sin” [Romans 14:23]). The only solution is to get rid of the rotten apple.

And that’s what Jesus did—and does. By His death on the cross, He, the perfectly sinless Lamb of God, took away the sins of the world, defeating sin and death. (He threw out the rotten apple.) And by His resurrection, He guaranteed the same eternal resurrected life for all those who would call on and believe in His name. (He fixed the leaky valve.) And it is this eternal life in which I have hope, because Christ has given me hope.

So, no, my best works will never be enough and I will never be enough to overcome sin and reconcile myself to God. But Jesus’ best was enough and He is enough. More than that, He has credited His enough-ness to my account thereby making me enough in His sight.

And I may never have as much worldly success or value as others, but Jesus values me. He loves me enough to die for me. More than that, He powerfully works within me to do works that are valuable to Him and His Kingdom.

I may never rise above being of second-rate importance in this life, but I am of first-rate importance to God: as a believer and a child of God, I am a co-heir with Christ (Romans 8:17) and a kind of firstfruits of creation (James 1:18). Nothing second-rate about either of those.

And, finally, while my life on this earth isn’t what I want it to be—and it never will be—it will nonetheless always still be worth living because He lives. And because He is enough.

Yours truly,
D. R. Meriwether, Ph.D.
Renaissance Man and Abundant Life Liver