Trigger Warnings: Suicidal Thoughts, Mention of Self-Harm,
There are days when I say I don’t believe God loves me.
I know, some of you are going to say, “Well, God loves you all the time. He says so in the Bible!” But see, sometimes that’s hard to imagine when you don’t feel loved in a human way. He doesn’t hug you, he doesn’t come around and work on things with you side-by-side, and he doesn’t compliment or encourage you when you’re low except through His Word. And that’s only when you put in the effort to read it, not because he reached out first (though sometimes he does, it's usually in an unconventional way). And I’ll admit, sometimes I’m ashamed of my questioning, but I believe it’s a rite of passage too: questioning everything until you find the truth—your truth. Your belief system, your understanding of the world, your perception of what’s right or wrong or in the middle of the grey.
I didn’t come here to speculate about life, though. I came here to tell you a story—my story. A story about a girl who, even amidst the trials and the pain, manages to have a spark of faith.
***
It all started at the end of the day, as it always did. I was perhaps seven, maybe a little older, but certainly under ten. After a whole day of pain and turmoil, the passive-aggressive comments from everyone around me sparked insecurities and hidden fears into a kind of anger that needed no kindling. Once ignited, it burned until I chose to put it out, and sometimes, that was after a few hours—sometimes, it took days. Regardless of the time period, when the anger finally subsided, I found myself crying, my sobs muffled in my pillow and my blankets tucked tightly around me.
“God,” I’d call, my voice only half a whisper, “Are you there?”
Not once did I get an audible answer, but I always hoped he was there.
“I… I really need a hug right now. Can I just… pretend that this is your hug?” I pulled the blanket tighter around me, feeling my body slowly relax into it as if I'd received a yes.
As if my God had given me the answer I longed for, as if he'd truly offered me comfort, albeit silently. All I knew was that He was my Lord, regardless of whether He answered me the way I wanted, regardless of whether he comforted me when I needed it, how I needed it.
Fast forward to when I was ten and my mind had shifted, spiraling into a deeper, darker place. I scribbled things in my diary like “Why do I live anymore? Would anyone care if I just disappeared?” It was only a short span of time before my anger and sadness turned into depression and even suicidality. Despite it all, though, whether I liked it or not, I survived.
I was too afraid of the other option.
When I was around 14, that fear almost entirely subsided. Another time that I felt at my lowest, and another time when God seemed too distant when I needed him most. I felt alone, I felt vulnerable, and I felt like I was in a mini form of hell. For those of you who have read Anne of Green Gables, this was the depths of despair—when you fall on the floor at the end of the day and just clutch at your middle, trying to hold yourself together because it all hurts too much.
That was the day I started cutting. Not to kill myself, but to cut away the pain, to make it visible, to make it feel justified, because obviously there was no other reason for me to be in such pain. My life was brilliant; I had three wonderful siblings, parents who tried their best to love me right, and friends who liked me well enough… but eventually, those friends drifted away as I spiraled more, my parents' “love” seemed to hold more animosity than anything else, and my siblings and I were at odds once again.
More days passed, however, and I never pushed hard enough to end it. There was a thread that I clung to that never snapped. It frayed slowly, yes, but I hung in there.
Now I’m almost 18 and I’m covered in scars from my past, both visible and invisible, but each one serves as a reminder that I’ve been carried through. And even though I still don’t truly believe God loves me, I can at least sometimes manage to believe that maybe He made me for a purpose, even if I don’t know what it is just yet. But I didn’t get from the lowest of the lows to thinking maybe there’s hope in one night. God had to pursue me for that. He—the King of all things—pursued me, little old me, and he can pursue you too. But let me tell you what he did to change my life over these past few years.
***
During the Covid-19 pandemic (so roughly when I was around fifteen), my youth group decided to go virtual instead of quitting entirely, as many did, but our attending group went from twenty kids to around four, three of whom were me and two of my siblings. In light of trying to still have community amidst the separation, we partnered with another church and combined our youth groups. This only added around two people, occasionally two or three more, but the ones I want to emphasize here are their leader and the oldest girl in the group, who was around eighteen at the time (I’m telling this story from a few years ago, so now I’m back to being younger, around fifteen at the time of the story).
At the time of this youth group, I wasn’t doing well mentally. Sometimes, I was able to engage enough to make passing comments and write down notes from the lesson, but other nights, I was nonverbal and had to struggle to write down words for my sister to say for me. The point was, though, I was present, and I got to know them despite the challenges.
When we started going to the physical church building for youth group, I lost contact with these two people (and all the others) from that youth group.
Fast forward three years and I’m scrolling Facebook trying to distract myself from the urge to kill myself. Somehow, by some miracle, I found the girl from the youth group in my friend list. At some point that I couldn’t remember, I’d friended her.
As I explored her profile, I found a post talking about her own journey with depression and suicidality. But it didn’t seem to fit any of her other posts. All the others were so full of genuine joy and appreciation for what life held. How could she have ever felt like I was feeling?
With barely more than a moment’s thought, I was writing her a message asking her how she did it. How did she get through it and seem so… joyful?
When she replied, all her comments led back to God. “He carried me through.” “He was looking out for me.” Anything like that, she most likely said it. She was so faith-filled and it made me envious. I wanted to know a God who would rescue someone from depression like that.
The God I thought I knew wouldn't even comfort me when I needed a hug.
I told her as much, and her response was to have me go to a movie, even buying the ticket for me, and when I went (I still can't believe I went), something happened that shifted my life in a new direction.
Someone asked if anyone needed prayer.
I stood up; I said yes.
As I did so, I was reintroduced to the lady's friend, who was my old youth leader who had co-taught for the Covid-19 youth group classes.
The moral of the story is, I hit rock bottom. I was going to give up on everything: happiness, my future, and life as I knew it. But I hung in there by some miracle and I was rewarded for it with a support system. Not just any support system, either. Mine was a support system that led me back to Him—back to peace and grace and love and joy unimaginable.
Now, I’m not sure if you’re going to get anything out of this, but I wanted to say this in the hopes that you get the point I’m trying to carry here: Whether you’re a doubter, whether you still believe, whether you want to believe but feel like something is stopping you, God’s still working in your life. He’s going to pursue you and hunt you down like the 1 separated from the 99, and no matter how reckless his love may seem to us, it’s not reckless at all. His love is intentional, thought out, and everything is going to work out according to his plan. In this, if nothing else, you can have faith.