I could hear him pacing back and forth, back and forth. I opened my eyes just enough to see what was going on. I was tired. Motherhood was wearing on me, grinding my whole body into exhaustion every single day. Yet I sensed he needed me too, this dark, tall, nervous shadow at the end of our bed, wearing old worn slippers on his feet, a brown robe draped over his thin frame, thick hair in disarray. He needed me, and I loved him, and love, sometimes inconvenient, woke me up in the middle of the night.
“Babe, what’s going on?” I muttered in a raspy voice. “What are you doing awake? Why are you walking around?” He continued pacing.
“My chest,” he whispered. “My chest is burning. It’s so tight, I can’t breathe.”
“Do I need to call somebody? Do I need to take you somewhere?” Still drowsy and terribly confused, I wondered if this was all a dream.
“No,” he answered. “I’ll be okay. I think I might be having a panic attack.”
I sat up. “A panic attack? What do you mean you think you might be having a panic attack?” He kept his pace, back and forth, back and forth, not too fast, not too slow, focused and determined. I had grown used to his tossing and turning. Andrew hardly ever had a peaceful night of sleep. I would often wake up in the middle of the night to him watching TV or working on his computer, but this was different.
Rambling on, I questioned, “Since when do you have panic attacks? Do you even know what a panic attack is? When did this start happening? What are you afraid of? Why can’t you relax?” I wasn’t thinking clearly. In my exhaustion I just wanted him to stop being “so dramatic” and lie back down. I offered to rub his back or run a bath for him, but my solutions weren’t working. He wasn’t stopping. He began to pace faster, more determined, growing angry.
“Andrew, why are you ignoring me? I’m trying to help you.” I spoke louder now, wide awake.
“You don’t understand. I can’t get it to stop.” His voice was stern. “I’ve been up for hours. I haven’t slept at all. It just keeps getting worse.” He continued pacing. “I’ve tried everything: I’ve walked outside, I’ve sat by the fire, I’ve watched TV, I’ve listened to music, I’ve tried to relax. But I can’t. It won’t go away.”
I needed to get back to sleep. Morning would come quickly, and with it, three very active little boys. “I want to help you, but it seems like there really isn’t anything I can do,” I said. He didn’t respond. I told him I loved him and lay back down, praying and hoping it would all just go away. “It will be better in the morning,” I whispered to myself. “He just needs to sleep.”
My boys woke me before sunrise. Still groggy and disoriented from the middle-of-the-night chaos, I peered over to Andrew’s side of the bed and saw that he was sound asleep, snoring. Good, I thought. Glad that’s over.
Except it wasn’t over. Night after night for the next several months, the same scene would take place in our bedroom. The panic would start in his chest with a dull pain, reminiscent of heartburn or a sore muscle. I’d watch as it settled deeper and completely took over his body. I could tell he was having a panic attack solely by the look in his eyes. His eyes would glaze over, and his pupils would dilate. I would get up close to him, cup his face in my hands, and search for some small glimpse of my Andrew. But time and time again he wasn’t there. All I could do in those moments was pray. God, please take it away. He is suffering, and I am suffering, and we can’t live like this anymore.
I couldn’t help but wonder, what was he afraid of? Where was the fear coming from? Why now? My mind went back to October 2017, a difficult month for us. Andrew had undergone two surgeries to remove a softball-sized mass from his chest. We were relieved to hear it was benign, but during the month he was recovering, a close member of our family experienced a significant threat, which I believe may have been the biggest invitation for fear.
When our family member’s life was threatened, Andrew took action. After speaking with trained law enforcement professionals, we determined that the only solution to the threat was to move our little family and our beloved family member to a private property behind a gate. A property we would purchase under an alias and surveil by top-of-the-line cameras. It may sound extreme, but at the time it felt necessary. Our family had already walked through immense trauma with the loss of Dave, and we felt protective. Our fragile hearts couldn’t take the thought of losing anyone else we loved. We felt if we did this, we would be safe, in our own little compound, our own private retreat, away from any potential danger.
As we searched for a new home, Andrew’s panic attacks continued; like a thief in the night, they stole away our sleep, our joy, and our sanity. As the months wore on, I began to feel exhausted and empty. It was like having a newborn baby all over again; no one was sleeping. And Andrew—he wasn’t Andrew anymore. Fear was changing him, transforming him. He was beginning to lose who he was as fear took over.
I spent countless hours scrolling through my phone, researching, desperate for answers and solutions. I’d heard about panic attacks before. I’d seen characters in movies breathe into a brown paper sack to stop hyperventilating. In those movies and even in real life, I’d heard the words panic attack used lightly, mostly out of context. It seemed like the phrase had been lost and distorted by casual misuse.
In my research I learned a panic attack isn’t just a moment of stress or confusion; it’s a disorder that can strike suddenly, out of the blue.1 Panic is fear, a fear so intense it triggers severe physical reactions even though there is no real danger or apparent cause.2 It’s fear gone wild and can only be tamed with treatment, tender care, and time. So we sought help from medical professionals, and Andrew was treated with both natural supplements and low-dose medication.
As I think back to the days of my Andrew wrestling with crippling fear, I am reminded of one of my favorite books, Hinds’ Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard, which I read after Andrew passed away. It is a beautiful allegory of a girl named Much-Afraid who is on a journey with the Shepherd (God) to the High Places. She sets out with Sorrow and Suffering by her side, and she is consistently attacked and tormented by Craven Fear (the Enemy) along the way. Even though she knows she can call on the Shepherd at any moment, she still allows Craven Fear to play games with her mind. He follows her all the way up to the High Places. With every step she takes, Craven Fear is never far away. At any moment he could show up, stop her in her tracks, and beckon her to turn around and run away from her calling, away from her dreams, away from her future, away from the place God has promised to her, the place where healing and wholeness awaits.
Like Much-Afraid, I felt like fear followed us everywhere. It ran the show, and it was running rampant in our home. As we worked closely with Andrew’s doctor, there seemed to be no explanation for the sudden changes in him—the only reasonable conclusion was that Andrew could be suffering from hyperthyroidism. His symptoms seemed to fit the bill: difficulty sleeping, fatigue, heart palpitations, irritability, nervousness, tremors, and weight loss. He was no stranger to this diagnosis; he had experienced a minor episode of hyperthyroidism in high school. We were relieved, and I thought, This is it! It’s just his thyroid. We will find the right specialist to prescribe the right medication, and he will be back to normal in no time. We made the appointment and waited.
As we waited, Andrew continued to be tortured by fear, which led to continued anxiety and panic attacks. The fear was out of his control. It was deep, and its grip was growing stronger. But he pushed through the pain and continued to show up for work and to preach regularly on Sundays. As a driven, passionate leader, he didn’t want to stop, but his body and mind were growing tired, and burnout seemed inevitable. He was running at an unsustainable pace.
Hitting a Wall
Ministry fatigue and burnout aren’t uncommon in pastors. One of Andrew’s favorite books, Leading on Empty, addresses this directly. It was a book Andrew read three or four times, and one that he encouraged our entire family and church staff to read as well. He underlined passages and took notes in the margins on nearly every page. Unfortunately, my eyes didn’t meet the words until it was too late—until after Andrew was gone. As I read it after his death, a new empathy and compassion grew in my heart for my precious husband and for other pastors who are pushing themselves to lead from the emptiest place.
In the book, author Wayne Cordeiro shares some statistics he found in H. B. London Jr.’s Pastors at Greater Risk. These statistics about pastors are shocking enough that I feel compelled to share them here:
• 75 percent report they’ve had a significant stress-related crisis at least once in their ministry.
• 50 percent feel unable to meet the needs of the job.
• 90 percent feel they’re inadequately trained to cope with ministry demands.
• 45 percent of pastors’ wives say the greatest danger to them and their family is physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual burnout.
• 45.5 percent of pastors say that they’ve experienced depression or burnout to the extent that they needed to take a leave of absence from ministry.
• 70 percent of pastors do not have someone they consider a close friend.3
I think sometimes we forget pastors are people too. They aren’t superhuman; they’re human. And in their humanity, they are susceptible to the same stressors as the rest of us. After years of running hard and fast in ministry, Andrew fell into these statistics. He was physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally burned out and unfortunately was never able to recover.
The Final Straw
On Easter weekend in April 2018, Andrew was on the church campus, gearing up to speak for the first of seven services that would stretch over the course of three days. He had just returned home from a three-week trip to India and Uganda, a trip I had attempted to talk him out of, a trip that had already been postponed once due to Andrew’s health complications. But he was passionate about the work our church was doing in India and excited about the potential connections to be made in Africa. He felt strongly that his presence on the trip was necessary, so I eventually accepted that there was nothing I could do to prevent him from going.
When he returned, he was as exhausted as I expected. He was still suffering from panic attacks, fear, and anxiety. He was running on empty but somehow would be able to give the Easter message. On the day of the first service, however, a security guard found Andrew curled up on the bathroom floor. He was hyperventilating so badly that he was starting to lose sensation in his hands and feet. The security guard called me and another family member, and we rushed to the office to help. I knew as soon as I locked eyes with Andrew that the fear had taken hold. The same fear I had seen nearly every night for six long months: out of control, untouchable, irrational, and terrifying. Fear gone wild.
Andrew’s eyes were glazed over, his pupils were dilated, and he was . . . gone. I knew there wasn’t much we could do to relieve his pain other than wait it out beside him. We prayed aloud, rubbed his back, and spoke truth over him. I was so relieved when, miraculously, the panic attack subsided just in time for Andrew to be mic’d up and rushed onto the stage.
As he began speaking to the church, I sat in the greenroom, surrounded by the band who had just finished their worship set, and broke into tears. I fell into the arms of the musicians, my friends, and wept. Andrew was onstage speaking, I was backstage crying, and not a single person sitting in the sanctuary could have known anything was amiss. In my heart it all felt so wrong. My faith was weary, and I thought, Where are you, God? Why aren’t you fixing this? Why does he continue to suffer? What am I supposed to do?
I was tired. I was tired of cohabitating with fear. It lurked around every corner, ready to pounce at any moment. Our life had become more unpredictable than ever. We never knew when a panic attack would strike, and they were happening too often. It seemed like the ugly was outweighing the beautiful, and it was suffocating my heart.
Just a few weeks later, Andrew had a massive panic attack, one we couldn’t manage at home. At the hospital, doctors ran new tests on his thyroid and concluded that his blood work was normal. His thyroid looked healthy. There wasn’t anything else they could do but send him home with some medication to help him relax. After we arrived home from the hospital, Andrew, our immediate family members, and the lead staff from the church all agreed it was time for him to take an extended break. He was tired, he was burned out, and he needed to rest, recharge, reset, re-something, re-anything—anything but what we were living.
The following Sunday, a few key members from the church board stepped onto the stage and announced Andrew would be taking an unexpected sabbatical. They were honest and explained he had been struggling with anxiety and panic attacks, and the church responded with love and support. We received hundreds of cards, gifts, and prayers, and we were so comforted to know we had a vast army of people cheering us on as we tried to figure out what to do next.
At home during the sabbatical, we believed we’d survived the worst, that the hospital visit, the last panic attack, was as bad as it could get. We had hope that we would figure this out, whatever this was, and we would find a way to rise strong again, together. I was a “stand by my man” kind of girl. I was crazy about him. I served him well, I put him first, and I respected and honored him. I knew Andrew was resilient and strong. I was confident God had an incredible plan for his life and believed this was just a small bump in the road. He would get through this. We would get through this. Surely the best was yet to come.
On paper Andrew had everything he could ever want. He was in his dream job. He was leading a large, thriving church at only twenty-nine years old. He had a wife who would follow him to the moon, three beautiful young boys who adored him, a family who would drop anything to be there for him, and we were just a few weeks away from moving into our new private home, a place we all eagerly hoped would bring safety, comfort, and healing.
But what we didn’t know was we were stepping into the wilderness. What we believed to be tame, under control, and predictable actually wasn’t. We were about to enter into the most trying, exhausting, and confusing season of our lives.
The Wilderness
In the Bible, the word wilderness appears more than three hundred times. God’s people were constantly in the wilderness, driven there either by flight or fight.
In flight mode, they ran away from their circumstances, from the only home they knew, searching for a safe haven. In fight mode, they wrestled with life, with God, and with their desert surroundings.
Flight and fight are our body’s natural reactions to fear. They, along with freeze, are physiological reactions to feeling scared. Our body releases hormones that cause us to stay and fight, flee to safety, or freeze, paralyzed by panic. These reactions can be triggered by a real physical threat, such as someone breaking into our home, or a psychological threat, such as giving a speech in public. Interestingly, the symptoms are very similar to those of a panic attack: rapid heartbeat, dilated pupils, pale or flushed skin, and trembling. In fact, a severe case of flight, fight, or freeze can eventually lead to a panic attack.
These fear responses, though discomforting, are actually designed to help us, not harm us. When hormones surge and we begin to tremble, we might feel as though we are losing control of our body. It may feel irritating, foreign, and debilitating, but the reactions increase our chance of survival and the likelihood of us rising victorious from the imposed threat.
Fight, flight, or freeze usually passes quickly, allowing us to return to our normal state of mind. But in some seasons of life, when the fight is long and grueling, when the flight drives us away into isolation, or when we’re so overwhelmed that we freeze, we may find ourselves in the wilderness—either by our own accord or by God’s divine will. What’s beautiful about the wilderness, though, is that God would never allow us to navigate such a wild and unruly place alone. He gave us a friend, a trusted companion, the ultimate survival guide, someone who has gone before and knows the way: the Holy Spirit. Even when the wilderness feels painful, foreign, confusing, vast, and empty, it can also be the place where God does some of his best work.
In the Bible, when Elijah fled in fear to the wilderness, God found him and spoke to him in a whisper. When Hagar ran away and was crying on the side of the road in the wilderness, God sent an angel to encourage her broken heart. When God led Abraham to the wilderness, God made him a great nation and gave him the miraculous gift of a son. When David fled for his life and found himself in the wilderness, God used that time to produce through David scripture that would encourage and influence people for thousands of years. God has consistently allowed his chosen people to be led into the isolation and emptiness of the wilderness.
Perhaps the most memorable wilderness story throughout Scripture is Jesus’ journey through the wild. Even God in the flesh found himself in the most desolate place. But prior to his wandering for forty days, Jesus experienced a monumental moment.
Then Jesus left Galilee to come to the Jordan to be baptized by John. But when he waded into the water, John resisted him, saying, “Why are you doing this? I’m the one who needs to be baptized by you, and yet you come to be baptized by me?”
Jesus replied, “It is only right to do all that God requires.” Then John baptized Jesus. And as Jesus rose up out of the water, the heavenly realm opened up over him and he saw the Holy Spirit descend out of the heavens and rest upon him in the form of a dove. (Matt. 3:13–17 TPT)
In this powerful moment, God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus began a new kind of ministry here on earth. God could have left Jesus alone, but instead God sent him a helper, a comforter, a guide, an intercessor, a friend who would play an invaluable part in the life and ministry of Jesus. A foreshadowing of what God would do for us all. Whether we find ourselves in the dark, lonely places of the valley or in the bright, warm sun on the mountaintop, we can draw comfort from the fact that, just like Jesus, we never wander alone.
Immediately following Jesus’ baptism, the Spirit led him into the desert wilderness. A pattern we see throughout the Scripture is that right after a significant spiritual event, just when it seems like victory or maturity has been attained, temptations resume more strongly than ever.4 Jesus understood this and knew that his time in the wilderness wasn’t pointless. Instead it served a valuable purpose. “Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands” (Deut. 8:2).
The wilderness has a beautiful way of prying open our hearts. As we wander through the wide-open spaces, we discover who we really are and how great our need for God really is. The wilderness isn’t optional; it’s an integral part of life. We all walk through tragedies and trials, and we have either gone through, are going through, or will go through, something painful.
Maybe, like me, you planned out your life, but it didn’t pan out the way you wanted it to.
Maybe the promotion you thought was coming never came.
Maybe the dream you had in mind never became a reality.
Maybe there was a relapse instead of remission.
Maybe there was a divorce instead of reconciliation.
Maybe you want to start a family, and though you’ve been trying for years, your arms are still empty.
Maybe you deeply desire to be married, and though you’ve gone on date after date, you are still single.
Maybe you were enjoying a stable, happy life and then mental illness came out of nowhere, and now you find yourself sitting in a season of depression that is dark, terrifying, and debilitating. And maybe for the first time ever, you are wrestling with suicidal thoughts that you never thought you would have.
Time in the wilderness will come for us all, but it doesn’t have to ruin our lives. With the supernatural strength and peace that can only come from the Divine, I truly believe we can survive and even thrive in the empty places. To remind myself of this hope, I’ve hung a green metal sign in my kitchen right above the stove. I read it every morning and believe every word. It says, “You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you’ll ever know.” Every word is true. Our most hated circumstances do not define us. We are not what has happened to us or within us. Our worth is found in him who sees past all the mess, the chaos, the exterior façade and looks straight at the heart. Even on our worst day he calls us precious, honored, and loved. And maybe that’s all we need to hear today.
You are precious.
You are honored.
You are loved.
All we have is today. And every moment of today rests in his mighty hands. If he wants to carry us home tomorrow, he will. If he wants to lead us into the wild, he will. If he wants to bless our lives and give us favor, he will. He sees the bigger picture; he sees straight into our hearts, and he knows exactly what’s waiting for us on the other side of the wilderness.