There was a lot of press after the suicide of Rick Warren’s son – some supportive, some reprehensibly critical, some just web filler. I’ve been hesitant to add more noise, except that I’ve had a history with depression. Perhaps my story will encourage you that you are not alone.
I cannot pretend to know the depth of pain that Matthew Warren endured. But I have a bit of an idea. When I was 27 years old, I felt like Elijah in 1 Kings 19, despairing under that broom tree. “Enough of this, God! Take my life.” I’d spent seven years trying to overcome my own personal stew of family dysfunction, addictive behavior and the thousand natural shocks that the artistic temperament is heir to. During that time I worked on healing my eating disorder, I saw a therapist, prayed a lot, memorized Bible verses, and attended every Christian healing seminar that came along. Whenever they had a prayer team after church, I went up, cried, fell over, and got back up. It was the nineties: the golden age of self-help.
But the summer of my 28th year I could not get back up […]