The Last Blog

By Jack Smith

God must have a sense of humor.
He sent a red bird, of all things, to save my life. You’d have to be an Auburn man to understand the irony.
I was stretched out on a sofa in a modest apartment at Skyland Trail in Atlanta, watching some inane daytime TV show, the kind people who don’t have careers like I had get to watch. It had been another long day of mindfulness meditations, music therapy and memory exercises.This routine had become my life.
Facing divorce and a future that was uncertain at best, I had been miserable my first month at the world-class treatment center. But I was beginning to feel a little better. The fighter in me was making a comeback.
Despite my progress, I was still tired and frustrated. I was a zombie in a pharmaceutical fog most of the day, worn down from shock treatments that rebooted my brain but left me with black holes in my memory. My spirit had been choked out of me by the heavy albatross of guilt from a second suicide attempt that cost me everything except the one thing I had hoped to lose. My life.
I was growing impatient with the side effects from the meds, which made my hands shake more than usual. Taking handfuls of lithium, mood stabilizers and antidepressants does that to some people. For patients like me with a familial tremor, it can be a nightmare. Some tasks are difficult; others are humiliating.

THE COLOR OF LIFE

The worst part of it all? The color of life had faded away.

And then he appeared. A beautiful cardinal landed on a tree just outside my window. It was a proud male with a strong beak and determined eyes behind his black mask. His crest was the most beautiful scarlet color I had ever seen.

It was as if someone changed the television from black and white to the most vivid color imaginable. After a long visit, the cardinal finally flew away. In the days that followed, I stared out the window hoping to see him again. The tranquil grounds outside our apartments were alive with the colors and sounds of spring. And they suddenly looked different.

I had never noticed how beautiful the pink azaleas, white dogwoods and yellow flowers that reminded me of home really were.The cardinal came back the next day and the day after that. I shared this story with my counselor, and she told me to never forget that moment.

“Why?,” I asked her.

“Because that’s the moment you saw color again for the first time in a long time,” she said. “Maybe that cardinal was a sign for you, Jack.”

Nearly three years later, I still believe the cardinal was no coincidence. God sent him to help me keep hope alive. It was a sign: If I kept trusting Him, I would be okay.

Inspired by my fellow patients and encouraged by the amazing staff at Skyland Trail, I kept getting better. The fog of depression finally began to lift with the help of changing meds and therapy, but it took more than the right cocktail of drugs. It took the fighting spirit deep in my bones that had been dormant for too damn long.

Slowly but surely, the warrior inside of me made a comeback. I had been flat on my face on the mat when I arrived at Skyland Trail, pummeled by a cruel disease and crushed by the painful realities I faced after my discharge.

In the early weeks of treatment, it seemed like life could not get any worse. Then one day, I made a decision. I was determined to get up off the mat, knowing the menacing heavyweight would be there waiting for me to pull myself up by the ropes, daring me to stay in the ring.

That’s what millions of people fighting depression and serious mental illness face every day. Major Depressive Disorder is like a boxer who never tires. It often slips out of the shadows and sneaks up behind you, starting with a sucker punch to the kidneys.

Left untreated, depression can beat the life out of you. And it hurts. Mentally, physically and emotionally. My heart breaks every time I talk to someone who is suffering. Depressed fathers who feel they have failed and fear telling anyone they are struggling. Anxious wives who believe they are somehow failing their husbands and their children. Struggling teenagers and college students overcome with angst and stress. I’ve met them all.

I’ve learned a lot about pain and suffering from my own experiences and from those who’ve been brave enough to share their stories with me. I’m grateful to God for them and the lessons suffering has taught me. Suffering brought me closer to the cross. For that reason alone, I would not change anything about my journey.

Suffering and the perseverance that came from it taught me another critical lesson: The pain of depression is only temporary. If you hold on long enough, the storms we all face eventually give way to sunshine.

Surviving those dark days helped me realize the battle will be won, either in this life or the next.

It also taught me nothing is more hurtful than losing hope. Hopelessness leaves us empty inside. It sucks the marrow of life right out of our bones. It takes away our God-given urge to fight that lies deep within us all.

I recently read “Wild at Heart,” a book by John Eldredge, for the second time. I would highly recommend it to any man who feels lost or weak or bored by life. The author poses the central question all men face: “Am I really a man? Have I got what it takes when it counts?” Reading the book again reminded me the fighting spirit I possess was put there by God. He designed me to be more than a nice guy who skates through a dull existence, avoiding risks while fearing danger.

He created me to come through when it counts, even though there are times when I struggle and falter and wonder why it has to be so hard. As Eldredge writes, He created hearts full of passion and a lust for adventure in us all. The hard part is embracing who we were created to be.

I’m still on that journey. I still fall down from time to time, but fear seldom stops me from taking risks or choosing to fight when the battle is on.

I fight because that’s who God made me to be. He gave all of us the strength and capacity to be warriors. Read the book of Ephesians. He promised us if we suit up in the Armor of God every day, we can win any battle we face, no matter how long the odds.

THE REST OF THE STORY

I have a medallion I cherish and a semicolon tattooed on my left ankle. I got the tattoo on my 45th birthday. It was a promise I made to myself—even though I knew my mother would not like it.

The medallion I carried in my pocket is engraved with a warrior suited up in armor given to him by God. The inscription includes the powerful words from Ephesians that strengthen me when my spirit grows weary. It reminds me I’m a warrior when I have God on my side. It was given to me by a good friend who has helped me time and again.

Yes, there are days I still get knocked down. But most of the time, I no longer try and pick myself up off the mat by myself. I rely on my faith, family, friends and the fighter deep within me.

And about that semicolon tattoo. It means my story isn’t over. There is more to come, maybe the best part. If you or a loved one suffering from mental illness is losing hope, don’t despair. Ask God to help you through it not one day but one hour at a time. He will provide the strength you need.

Remember “The Shawshank Redemption?” It’s one of my favorite movies of all time. Do you recall what Red says to Andy in the prison yard? “Hope,” he says while pulling a toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at his friend, “is a dangerous thing.”

I don’t agree. Hope is all we have when the ox is in the ditch and there is no one there to help us pull it out.

Let me tell you the part Hollywood doesn’t like to talk about. Without faith, there can be no hope. My faith saved me from despair. I believe with all my heart God sent that cardinal to perch on the tree just outside my window.

I’ve seen hundreds of cardinals since, and they always remind me to never lose hope again. I could tell you countless amazing stories about times I’ve seen cardinals when I needed a nudge to keep moving, a spark to keep the fire in my heart burning. Several prayer warriors close to me can tell you stories about cardinals they saw while they were praying for me or wondering how I was doing.

IT'S ILLNESS, NOT WEAKNESS

Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety disorders and other forms of mental illness are medical conditions just like cancer or diabetes. So please hear and understand this point.

Faith alone is not sufficient to treat mental illness. I’m still troubled by surveys showing half of all Christian pastors don’t believe it is a sickness. They apparently think if we just pray hard enough, we don’t need doctors or real medicine.

I’m not sure what they actually believe, but I know the church needs to wake up and care for the countless people in their own pews suffering in silence. I can tell you that from experience.

I pray that all those who may be suffering and wondering why they can’t get better without help will know and remember this: Mental illness is not weakness. It is sickness. And it requires proper medical and therapeutic treatment.

So please, if you are hurting, get help. Take the hardest step—the first one— by telling a friend or loved one. It will make you feel better.

While I’m retiring this blog, my humble efforts to try and help people will never end. This blog has been a blessing and a burden, but I’ve met or talked to countless people who need a little help. And a lot of hope. I just wish I had more time to be there for those who need it.

Those who courageously reached out to me as a result of the blog have helped me more than they will ever know. That’s what happens when we share our stories with people who can really understand them—those who have walked in the heavy shoes of misery.

I still believe what I’ve written before. Secrets lose the power to hurt us when we drag them into the light. That is why we must fight stigma until it no longer exists. We need to continue the progress made toward a less judgmental and more compassionate culture.

VICTORY

On a chilly morning not long ago, I was enjoying a fresh cup of coffee on my back porch. The mug warmed my hands while I sat quietly and listened to the birds. The red wind chimes hanging from above tinkled as a light wind whispered through the naked trees, the pale yellow sun rising in the distance.

I paid $5 for those wind chimes at Dollar General, but they are priceless to me. The wind chimes were not an impulse purchase like some of the random items I often bring home from my favorite discount store.

I love Dollar General. Shopping there makes me feel like a regular person just trying to make it in the world like everyone else pushing around buggies weighed down by so much more than groceries. I often wonder about their stories.

Seeing the wind chimes I wasn’t looking for was not a random occurrence. It was a sign from God. You see, the first one hanging on the rack had a red cardinal made of cheap stained glass perched on top of the chimes. Some might say it’s tacky. I say it has eternal value.

Now every time the wind blows, I remember what may be the most important moment of my life. I remember what the cardinal means to me. Hope. Hope for peace and happiness. Hope for lasting love and an abundant life. Those dreams have begun to become true in my life. That is a miracle.

I’ve fought enough battles to know every day won’t be easy. When I started this blog, I wasn’t sure what to name it. I settled on “One Man’s War.” I had it half right. It is a war. It will never fully go away. But I no longer fight it alone.

I will win it one way or the other, because like Roman soldiers who hooked their shields together for battle, I now fight it with the help of others. And an Almighty and Everlasting God who will never forsake me.

I took another sip of coffee and drank in the beauty of that winter morning, knowing spring will soon arrive. The rich Arabica blend with a touch of sweet cream made me think.

This is what victory tastes like. Thanks be to God.

Let's talk about youth suicide before it's too late

By Jack Smith

Talking about suicide doesn't increase the risk of suicide.

But we need to talk about it in the right way. And we need to talk about it with our teenagers. Before it's too late.

Suicide breaks hearts. It rips families apart. It devastates friends. And it damages children. That's the dark reality of suicide, which isn't poetic at all. It's grim and it's cold and it's sad.

Ending stigma is part of the challenge, but we have to do more than just talk about suicide. We have to talk about our fears. Our anxiety. Our hurts and our brokenness.

When we bury those emotions for some who struggle with mood disorders, we plant the seeds of suicide along with them.

That's why it's important to begin a healthy discussion with our young people now. 
They need to know it's okay to struggle. They need to know it's okay to ask for help. They need to know an episode of depression or failure or disappointment doesn't have to be the end.

They need to know feelings aren't facts. They're just feelings. And they pass like a night storm that brings wind and rain but is gone before dawn.

I deeply appreciate Auburn City Schools being proactive on this issue and encouraging my daughter and I to share our story. And I could not be prouder of  her. When we make ourselves vulnerable and share our stories, secrets and stigma lose the power to hurt us. 

Thank you Dr. Karen DeLano, Dr. Shannon Pignato (a gifted and compassionate educator who cares about all of her students) and Joy Stanley.

 I'm especially grateful for Chris Hardman and Daniel Chesser for their professionalism and compassion shown throughout this series...and most of all for their care and concern for the students of Auburn High School.

Suicide is now the second leading cause of death for young people. And it's by far the most preventable.

But only if we have the courage to be vulnerable and start talking.

Out of the Darkness & Into the Light

Out of the Darkness Walk. October 2015

By Jack Smith

Three weeks had passed since the night I reached a place so dark and desperate and painful that I began to believe the lie. 

It was the night I gave up. The night I lost hope. The night I said to hell with this, I quit.

I gave up on my children. I gave up on my family. I gave up on my friends. I gave up on my coworkers. I gave up on all the people praying for me, including many I didn’t know.I gave up on many who were suffering in silence, people I had never met who found inspiration in the words I wrote about my struggle. 

I gave up that dark and surreal night because I believed the lie. The lie that I was broken beyond repair. The lie that my family and friends would be better off without me. The lie that I could make the pain go away if I just shoved as many pills down my throat as possible.

I believed the lie because depression is a cruel disease. It is cunning and relentless and opportunistic. It crouches in the edge of the wilderness of our minds, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. 

It waits until darkness and clouds cover the stars and obscure the moon, making it impossible to navigate the storm in the blackness of a bitterly cold, long winter’s night.  

It waits until we are weak and vulnerable, and then it comes on slowly at first. It pushes us down a slippery slope into a dark and lonely abyss. We begin to believe the lie because depression and other forms of mental illness are like cancer of the mind. 

The cancer spreads from our minds to our hearts and even our souls. It feels like there is no cure, and there isn’t. It feels like there is nothing anyone can do to help us, but that is a lie. 

We believe it even though part of our mind knows it is a lie. We believe the lie because we have lost hope, one of the most powerful forces on earth, second only to faith and love. 

We feel like we are standing on top of a burning building, and the only thing we know to do is jump.What we don’t realize in that surreal and disconnected moment is that when we jump, the dreams that so many others have for us come crashing down with us. 

We don’t realize the collateral damage we are inflicting on those who love us the most, those who would give away everything they have just for one last chance to tell us they love us, one last chance to tell us hope is not dead, one last chance to tell us they will stop at nothing to get us the help we need. I jumped from the burning building. 

Twice. 

But I’m still here. I don’t know why I am here and your friend or loved one is not, and I know it isn’t fair. But I am here. I didn’t know it at the time, but God was holding my hand as I walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Somehow, he saw me through to the other side, and today I stand in the sun. 

I am telling my story because I can’t just stand in the sun and soak up the glory of God’s creation without thinking of those I left behind in treatment who have relapsed, never made it out or decided they could no longer fight because they were so weary from it all.I am here telling my story not because I want to….it is easier just to bury it deep in the dark corners of my heart and hope that it never sees the light of day again. 

I have learned we can’t bury pain in our hearts and ever hope to be truly happy. I have learned that holding onto secrets is dangerous and toxic. Thanks to God’s grace and the faith and wisdom of my then 14-year-old daughter, I finally learned something important: Our secrets lose the power to hurt us when we drag them into the light. 

That is the wicked power of stigma….it keeps us from getting the help we need and from believing there is still hope. That is just part of my story. But today isn’t really about my story. It is about your story. 

It is about the student who wrote that he was putting together a team for this event because the campus ministry he serves lost two members to suicide in one year.It is about the young college student who lost a dear friend because she never shared her pain with anyone else. 

It is about the grandmother here with us today who lost her grandson to suicide, then her own son only months later. I can’t fathom how much pain he must have been in after losing his own son. That’s why I can’t stand here and judge him today. I know what it’s like to hurt. 

It is about a friend I made just yesterday who lost her sister to suicide three years ago. She wants to start a program in the schools so teenagers become more aware of suicide risks and warnings. 

The statistics tell us we should have done that yesterday. Suicide is the second leading cause of death among young people. It is about mothers and fathers here today whose lives were devastated and whose spirits were crushed because their son or daughter lost hope and for whatever reason just couldn’t ask for help. 

It is about 1 in 3 Auburn University students who say they have thought about suicide. That is what surveys tell us. I am not good at math, but think what that means. That means there are 8,000 students on this campus who either have been hurting or are hurting so much they were tempted to believe the lie, too. 

That is a big number that doesn’t really put it into perspective. Maybe this does. The next time you are walking through this Student Center, try to grasp that every third person in line at Starbucks may be struggling at that moment. Some of them may have cried through the night, wondering why the only thought they have is the world would be better off without them.

Try to grasp that every third person you walk by carrying the weight of their books on one shoulder and a whole lot more pain and stress and worry on the other has at some point contemplated suicide. Today is about their story, too. 

Back to my story for a moment. It had been three weeks since I tried to take my life for the first time.My brother had joined me on a flight to Houston on our way to a world class treatment center. 

I had lost hope. I had become disconnected from God in many ways. Then I pulled my Bible out from under my seat. I flipped it open, looking for answers. Inside I found a note from my 14-year-old daughter. 

With her permission, I would like to share it with you now... 

Her letter got me through a terribly difficult time. It changed my perspective and changed my prayer. I quit praying for a cure that night. I started praying for God’s will for my life, even if it meant I had to suffer along the way. 

After reading her letter and changing my prayer, the pain and guilt began to lift, at least long enough for me to go through treatment that time. The dark clouds of depression rolled back into my life again less than two years later, but I still think that change in my heart and my prayer is why I am here today to tell you my story. 

Many of you here can relate to the toxic nature of guilt. Guilt is like poison in our hearts. It must be flushed away before we can forgive others or even forgive ourselves. My prayer today is that those of you are living with guilt and regret can let go of them. 

It will always be hard to forgive your friend or loved one who made a tragic choice unless until you let go of the guilt. Ask God to flush it from your heart. 

Your friend or loved one did not understand that by attempting or completing suicide, they were only taking their pain and multiplying it by a million. They did not understand they were merely giving it to those who love and care for them the most.If they had, they would have asked for help.

Today, I want to ask you to do a few simple things: Please support the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention with a donation or at least your prayers. If you are a student here, get involved with Active Minds Auburn. 

It is a great organization doing the important work of eliminating stigma through awareness of mental illness. If you have ever struggled with depression or bipolar or anxiety, make a list of 3 friends you can call at 3 am when it’s dark and you are lonely. Put them in your phone under “Favorites.” 

They may one day be much more than “favorites” in your phone. They may be guardian angels that save your life.Before you go to sleep, pick up your phone and text 3 friends or loved ones that you sometimes worry about. 

Tell them you love them and that you will always be there for them. Tell them even if it’s 3:00 a.m., they can always text or call. Tell them you will just be there for them to listen and try to understand. And if you like music, go listen to Matthew West’s “Strong Enough.” 

It is about giving up. Not quitting. It is about giving up on the lie that we are strong enough to handle the storms of life on our own. It is about recognizing that no matter how dark the skies, no matter how loud the thunder, no matter how heavy the rain, no matter how much fear we have in our hearts, there is a way out. 

It is about admitting we aren’t strong enough to do it on our own. Admitting that is not only okay. It’s the only way out when we can’t see the lighthouse in the distance. I love one verse in that song. 

This is what it says:Maybe that's the pointTo reach the point of giving upCause when I'm finally, Finally at rock bottomWell, that's when I start looking upAnd reaching out...I’ve learned that having the right doctor, the right diagnosis and the right treatment plan is vital in the struggle against mental illness. But I’ve also learned something more important. 

We must learn to lean on friends and family. Mine saved me. They brought me out of the darkness and into the light. My family never once judged me. They just loved me and stopped at nothing until I finally got some answers. Friends and family are critical, but I would not have turned my life around and found hope and happiness again if God had not stayed faithful to me. 

I kept my faith even when I didn’t understand God’s plan. My faith has sustained me through some hard times, including times when I didn’t have any courage. When I was at rock bottom, a dear friend gave me a little black book that has helped save my life. 

Inside are hand-written verses, songs and quotes. She even left blank pages so I could write my own favorites down.I find one thing in my little black book that helps me every day. The words on the last page say it all.“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying ‘I will try again tomorrow." 

You don’t need the courage to conquer it all in one day. God, your friends and family will do that for you in time. You just have to let go and let them. You just need the courage to try again tomorrow.

One year later

“In quietness and confidence is your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)

The person who found me read that scripture hours before driving to my house with her husband. The scripture about quietness resonated so loudly with her she scribbled it on her mirror.

She had no idea she would read different words on another mirror a few hours later, where the sound of terror had given way to an eerie silence the night before.

What they found when they arrived was a sad sight, the wreckage of a life that had slowly spun out of control and then crashed into a helpless mess.

But that’s enough about that story.

Anniversaries can be a time to celebrate. A time to reflect. A time to mark sad or special events. They can also be a time to move on.

For me, it’s a time to reflect on one big miracle and a bunch of tiny ones.

It might sound like no big feat, except for those who suffer from depression or bipolar or crippling anxiety, but since being released from the hospital a year ago, I’ve spent one day in the bed. With a migraine. That’s a miracle.

I’m still here with my family and my wife, despite the tremendous toll bipolar disorder takes on marriages and the unfair strain it puts on families.

I’m still providing for my family, though some days, a lot of days, I wonder when the next relapse will sneak up behind me in the night and grab me around the neck.

I’ve nearly given up hope a few times, and then found it again, realizing something when my faith has gotten slippery. Hope not grounded in faith offers little assurance. It’s almost guaranteed to disappoint us.

I’ve learned there are no limits to the compassion and kindness of friends, whose outpouring of love and support are medicine for the soul.

I’ve learned there is no blessing like a family that will stop at nothing to offer love, support and loyalty when all seems lost.

I’ve learned that secrets lose their power to hurt us when we drag them into the light.

I’ve learned that getting lost in the wilderness is a terrifying experience, but God never leaves your side if you just call on him.

I’ve learned that for me, praying for God’s will makes me feel better than praying for a cure.

Most of all, I’ve learned that the longer we suffer, the stronger we get.

Thanks to my family. Thanks to my friends. Thanks to the readers I don’t know. And thanks be to God. It is because of Him that I’m still here.

My thoughts on suicide

 If I owned a gun, I might be dead.

That’s how much pain I was in about this time a year ago. In just a few weeks it will have been one year since I tried to kill myself with a fist or two full of pills and enough alcohol to make a college freshman sick for a week.

Thoughts of the anniversary have been lurking in the dark corners of my mind. My therapist has mentioned it a time or two. But I haven’t dealt with it yet.

And then this week happened.

I felt more numb than sad when I first heard about Robin Williams. Then the numbness gave way to profound sadness as details of his struggles with depression and addiction emerged.

I thought of my favorite Robins Williams films, with “Dead Poets Society,” “Good Will Hunting” and “Patch Adams” topping the list. Such talent, such a brilliantly funny guy. I thought the same thing you thought: How could a man who could make others laugh so hard be in so much pain?

One thing I’ve learned through my experiences is you can’t judge another’s. It’s obvious from reading some real gems on social media this week that some don’t get that. People in immense pain can be masters at covering it up. Especially a brilliant actor who could play a dozen roles in a five-minute interview.

It’s not uncommon for the mentally ill to be especially creative or sensitive. I suffer from bipolar disorder. Google it and you will find an impressive list of creative geniuses who lived with the disorder and left legacies that are a part of every history book.

I understand Williams was a sensitive and caring guy who was loved by everyone in Hollywood. That’s unusual. Being sensitive and caring is not. But I think highly sensitive people who suffer from serious mental illness sometimes have a hard time navigating the world. I know because I’m one of them.

In the movie “Dead Poets Society,” Williams’ character teaches his class the classic Walt Whitman poem “O Captain, My Captain.” It’s about the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.

A powerful stanza reads:

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Ironically, one of the young characters in the movie commits suicide when his father forbids him to pursue his dream. Acting. And Williams, whose eccentric teaching ways don’t fit at the rigid all boys’ school, is fired.

As he leaves the classroom for the final time, the boys who’ve grown to revere him stand on their desks in defiance and exclaim “O, Captain, My Captain!”

That movie came out my senior year in high school. As many times as I’ve seen it, that scene still puts a lump in my throat.

The deaths of President Lincoln, shot in the head, and Williams, who hanged himself with a belt, could not be more different. One died an innocent death. The other hanged himself with a belt. Is one more tragic than the other?

I’ve talked to families of those who killed themselves, and the pain they inflicted on their loved ones was too much to bear. Unfair, really. So it is different. It is hard to say it isn’t. So I won’t.

I will say that in my own experience the pain I felt at my desperate hour hurt to my bones. I had carried around the crushing weight of depression for so long one step felt like a thousand. I had choked back tears so many times my soul was full of them.

The racing thoughts had spun so far out of control reality no longer existed. The anxiety was so great I had lost my appetite and my ability to have a clear thought. The thoughts I did have were distorted. I was detached from the world as it really existed. I was stressed from work and life.

And then the switch flipped. There had been thoughts but no real plan. It was an impulsive action that unfolded in the span of a few dark hours.

I wrote a note on my iPad, scribbled a message on the mirror, drank a lot of alcohol, took a bunch of pills and awoke 12 hours later with a friend—who thought I was dead—slapping me in the face.

After four days in the hospital, a long and hard journey to recovery began. You can read about it elsewhere on this site.

My message to those who are hurting is don’t give up like I did. There is better care available than there ever has been. I found it, and you can, too.

My ride is still bumpy sometimes. The last month was a little like the Mindbender at Six Flags, with wicked twists and turns and loops, but I eventually got off the ride. And I’m still standing.

Lean on friends and family. Especially family. Caring friends eventually have to go home. Doctors move on to the patient in the next room. Family will never leave your side. Wrap up in your family like a warm blanket on a bitterly cold night.

Explore your faith. Mine has saved my life and given me hope. Sometimes I pray a big prayer in the morning and little ones all day. Lord, get me through this meeting. Lord, get me through this phone call. Lord, get me through this anxiety. Lord, quiet the racing thoughts in my head. Lord, just give me five minutes of peace. Lord, save me from myself.

Robin Williams is gone. That is a tragedy. An equally great tragedy is that there are more suicide gun deaths than homicide gun deaths in the U.S. every year. The media doesn’t talk about that.

Did you know that talking about suicide doesn’t increase the risk of suicide? Talking about suicide is the best way to prevent it.

It’s sad that it will be silent again when this latest story passes.