On the Front Lines of Despair

How Showing Up Can Save a Life

I’ve gotten several imminent suicide calls in ministry. Here’s one:

Years ago, in my first pastorate, I met a man we’ll call Bryan. He was a former police officer, injured in the line of duty, and now struggling with depression. Losing the career that had given him purpose left him feeling adrift, and in one of our pastoral counseling sessions, he admitted he’d thought about ending his life.

I told him, “If you ever feel that way again, call me, no matter what.”

Months later, I got an early morning call. On the other end, Bryan’s voice was calm but chilling: “I’m done with life. I gave you my word I’d call if I got to this point. This is that call.” Then he hung up.

I tried calling back over and over, but he wouldn’t answer. I called a staff member who knew where he lived, and together we raced to his house. As we approached his front door, there he was, standing behind the screen door with a gun to his head.

I froze. Raising my arm, I stopped the staff member behind me.

“Bryan,” I called out, “my friend, put the gun down. Even though you can’t see it right now, your life is incredibly valuable!”

He stood there, silent, unmoving.

I sent my staff member back to the car, asking him to watch for a signal to call the police. Then I turned back to Bryan.

“It’s just me now, Bryan. Put the gun down so I can come in and talk to you.”

“The gun stays where it is,” he replied. “But you can come up if you want.”

I told him, “I’ve got a wife and two boys at home. My wife would be very angry if I walked up there and you were still holding that gun. How about you toss it onto the couch? That’ll make me feel much better.”

He thought for a moment, then finally relented, tossing the gun onto the couch.

I stepped inside, and we began to talk. I could tell he’d been drinking and along with his pain meds, his speech was a bit slurred and his thoughts were disjointed. As we talked about his pain, his value, and how much he was loved: by God, by his family, and our church, I saw glimmers of hope. When he looked away, I grabbed the gun and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

For over an hour, I encouraged him to come with me and get help, but he refused. At one point, he became angry and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t leave him there. I signaled to my staff member outside to call the police. When he saw the police arrive, Bryan realized I had his gun, he went to a back bedroom and came back with a shotgun.

As he walked toward me, I said, “Bryan, if you come out with that shotgun, this day will become a nightmare for so many people. Please…I’m begging you…put it down.”

After what felt like an eternity, Bryan finally relented. He stepped outside, where the police were waiting. Peacefully, he surrendered, and from there, he was able to get the help he so desperately needed.

Reflection:

That day, I learned the weight of standing in someone’s darkest hour. Ministry isn’t always sermons and celebrations. Sometimes it’s standing on the front lines, speaking life into despair, and being willing to stay in the hard moments until hope breaks through.

If you know someone who’s struggling, don’t underestimate the power of showing up, speaking love, and staying present. God can use even the messiest, most broken moments to save a life.