
It was a beautiful late spring or early summer day in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The sun was shining, around 70 degrees that morning in 1982. It was a busy morning. I returned to my office around 11:30 and looked at my calendar. Unusual for me, there was no lunch appointment. Grabbing my suit coat, I went home. We lived a short drive away.
It was a gorgeous day. During the trip, I thought about one of the morning meetings. There was a woman in the meeting who didn’t like me. Something I said brought a begrudging look of almost respect from her. The thought made me smile if people knew what I was planning.
I was alone for lunch that afternoon, as my wife was at work, a long drive away. Lunch had two items on our table, the first a slushy. We would take lemonade and add enough vodka so the mixture wouldn’t freeze solid. I took a long drink and suffered a brain freeze ache behind my forehead.
The other item on the table was my grandpa’s Colt Woodsman .22LR. How he loved that gun! It had been his pride and joy. Poppa taught me to shoot pistols with that gun. We’d go to the dump and shoot rats, cans, or old washing machines.
Jacking a round into the chamber, I contemplated whether to hold the barrel to my temple or stick it in my mouth.
Suicide seemed logical. Life seemed futile. What had begun as an exercise to look at career options had become an obsessive, self-centered mountain of indecision. It became a sickness of self-absorbed examination and contemplation. My compulsion over the issue was driving my wife and closest friends away. They were sick of hearing, “What should I do?” Implicit in my thinking was how to maximize my career potential and enjoyment.
I retreated into the world of depression after giving up on my friends. During this slide, it became essential to hide my genuine feelings and put a smile on my face.
With all the career scenarios, I played out each option’s best-case and worst-case situation. The inevitable outcome, successful or a disaster, ended in death. Day by day, my mental state slid further down the Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole from self-absorption to self-loathing. Daily, I tried to climb out of the pit of depression. It was like trying to crawl up a bank of soft sand. The more I struggled, the faster I slid down deeper and deeper toward oblivion.
Is it worth putting up with all the pain and hard work? Let’s short-circuit life and get it over with—the permanent solution to a temporary problem.
I thought how funny it was that my work performance was at a peak while I contemplated killing myself. Somehow, I found my death amusing. The unanswered question kept sucking me into a gloomy dungeon with no way out. The more I struggled, the worse it got. The closest I came was that lunch hour.
I withdrew more and more. My wife knew something was wrong, but not how bad. We’d been on a health kick, eating better and exercising. The result was that we were in pretty good physical shape. My wife was strong but tired of my incessant topic. After clamming up more, I came up with my ultimate plan.
My wife didn’t know what to do. The pit of soft sand I’d struggled in became a quicksand trap, pulling me beneath the surface of depression. Not an alcoholic, I did occasionally engage in binge drinking. Rather than an escape from my internal hell, it lubricated the slide deeper into a more dangerous level of thinking.
The drinking to escape helped me push my wife away, which hurt her deeply. So did careless statements to friends. The close friends I’d have a social drink with were gone, replaced by the professional bar crowd who encouraged destructive behavior.
I contemplated life at 3 am in our den—if there would be one. Besides the gun, I inherited Poppa’s Catholic crucifix. I thought deeper about Jesus than ever before as I looked at Jesus on the cross. The plastic body had red smudges on his hands, feet, and side, and a drip from the thorns pressed into his skull.
What pain and agony He endured. I asked, “Jesus, you are God. Why did you have to die such a horrible, painful death?” The words popped into my mind in the first person,
“Because I love you.”
It wasn’t a voice, but in my heart, I knew Jesus had spoken—to me. Overcome by the knowledge that the King of kings, Lord of lords, loves me, I surrendered to Him, my Lord and Savior!
Gentle waves of tender warmth and comfort caressed me to the depth of my being. I knew it was God’s unconditional love. How can you describe God’s love? I don’t believe the human mind can comprehend the depth of love God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit have for us.
There was a physical sense of comfort, warmth, and security, but it paled compared to my pure joy. The Bible says we share the Glory of the Lord. God transformed me from a depressed, suicidal man into a Child of God. It was the love of Jesus, my Savior, which He proved on the cross—a love I gratefully accepted with warm tears of thanksgiving on my knees in our little den.
Life made sense. God created me for a relationship with Him. My purpose was to love God with all my heart and to love others.
Growing up as a Catholic taught me about Jesus and God. I knew Jesus died for humanity. But, the voices from childhood haunted me. My Dad told me, “You’ll never amount to anything.” My Mom put Dad on a pedestal and continually told me. “If you can be half the man your Dad is…” These misguided words convinced me that God’s plan of grace could not include me.
Jesus tells us we don’t have to earn His love. Horrid words from the past told me I wasn’t worthy; it had to include being unworthy of God’s love. If I couldn’t achieve my parents’ love, how could I deserve the love of God Almighty?
That instant when Jesus told me He died such a horrible death because He loved me changed my heart. At last, I had a sense of God’s love for me. That love was demonstrated by Jesus when He died the painful death on the cross. Jesus set much of His Godhead aside to become a man to suffer for us, for me. He loves us. God even loves me.
Meeting Jesus that night and accepting Him as my Lord made me love Him more than anything—no, more than everything in my life. Life hasn’t been perfect, nor have I. But it’s given me a new purpose: to live by faith in a relationship with Christ for God’s glory.
The Christian faith is a love story about God’s love for us. It is personal and anchored by an immovable love that cannot be taken. He loves us so much that even in our most disgusting, sinful nature, Jesus would die for us—would even die for me.
It was years before I shared this story with anyone besides my wife. Finally, I got the courage to share it with some pastor friends. One stated, “That is the message of the cross.”
Why did Jesus die a horrible, tortured death on the cross?
“Because of His infinite love for us. He loves us more than we can fathom.”

