The day I stood on the edge

There's something pastors rarely say from the pulpit.

Today I'm sharing my darkest moment.

It started with a hand.

Openchurch in Herning had launched, and everything was wonderful. But my hand would suddenly go numb, and my doctor recommended an operation. I was reluctant, but he reassured me: your life will be better afterward. So I trusted him and took the leap.

What was supposed to be a routine procedure became a turning point. A nerve was damaged. What remained was a hand that burned day and night, as if it were lying in boiling water. No anesthetic could ease it.

In the middle of the pain, the responsibility was heavy. Father of three lovely girls. Pastor of a wonderful and growing church. Teacher at a Bible school an hour to an hour and a half away. And pastor training with Saddleback Church in thirteen locations across Europe. Two days every six months … times thirteen :-)

I couldn't say no. "It's for the Lord," I told myself. Again and again.

As if God wanted me to run myself into the ground.

In 2009, in the middle of the rush of running a youth conference in Denmark, an unexpected moment of reflection came.

Steve Gambill was our guest speaker that weekend. He came from Bradford in England. He looked me in the eyes and asked gently, in his warm American accent:

Thomas, are you enjoying being in ministry?

On the outside I answered with an optimistic "yes!"

On the inside, a small voice whispered a completely different truth.

The pain and the responsibility had eclipsed the joy and the purpose. And in that darkness a thought began to grow: the thought of putting an end to it all. It beckoned like a solution, an escape from the relentless pain.

It was a cold winter day. The snow lay like a blanket over the world. I stood on the edge and considered the dark solution. I had even decided how, where and when.

But 200 meters from the place I stopped the car and pulled over, as if an invisible hand were holding me back.

There I sat. Far too long. I managed to send a text message and called in sick to the Bible school. And I stayed sitting there.

While I sat there, God stepped in. Not with a miracle. With people.

My father-in-law called, at exactly the right moment. That call became the lifeline I desperately needed.

And when I afterward dared to say it out loud, to Christina, my wife, and to my fellow pastors at Openchurch, the real turning point happened: admitting the depth of my despair and reaching out for help. They stood by my side and helped me through the darkness.

Gradually I was built up again. The focus shifted from my achievements to God's love and grace.

And one day it became clear to me:

God did not love me because of what I accomplished.

He loved me for who I was.

His child.

It took time. But the lies that had held me captive crumbled.

Today I think with gratitude of Steve's question. It was not an attack. It was a life ring.

I'm telling this because I know that some of you reading it know that edge.

Not necessarily the same one. But the pressure that doesn't lift. The smile you hold up, even though everything inside is screaming. The sense that everyone else has it together.

It's not a lack of faith to feel that way.

It's being human.

God doesn't meet us with: "Pull yourself together."

He meets us the way he met Elijah under the broom bush, with care, food and presence. Before he said a single word about what was to happen next.

What are you carrying that no one else knows?

And who is the one person you could say it to?

You are not alone. And it's okay not to be okay.

Please share this if you know someone who needs it. Mental health is a condition of life, not a weakness. And if you yourself need someone to talk to right now, you can call Livslinien at 70 201 201.