Our family was familiar with hospitals, nurses, and beeping machines. We had lived in and out of the hospital for four years while Andrew’s dad fought for his life against unrelenting leukemia. It had been three years since David lost his fight and entered eternity, and now Andrew? It didn’t feel real; it couldn’t be real. How could this be happening again? How had we ended up in another hospital room, surrounding another man we loved?
Shock paralyzed my entire body. My head was spinning, my stomach was in knots, and my chest felt tight and heavy. Everything was blurry as I lay on the small hospital bed holding my husband. All I could do was pray. I prayed the same prayer I had prayed on the way to the hospital: “God, we need a miracle. God, please.” I kept begging for supernatural intervention, begging God to write a different ending, begging God to step in and perform a miracle, one only he could do. We waited hours for results from the doctor. Results that would tell us if Andrew would live or die.
How do you wait for something like that? How do you process death by suicide? How do you say goodbye? I held on to hope like I held on to Andrew, gripping as tightly as I could. Surely, I reasoned, God wouldn’t allow this to happen to our family again—would he?
The machines were keeping Andrew alive, but Andrew wasn’t there. I wondered where he was. Is he already in heaven with his dad? Will he come back to be with us? Is this the end? Thoughts bounced off every corner of my mind, and the same two words remained on my tongue. “God, please.”
Out of desperation I posted a picture to Instagram begging everyone we knew to pray. The caption read, “Friends, we need your prayer! Please pray for complete healing for this man. He is in the hospital on life support after attempting to take his own life this morning. We need a miracle. Please pray.”1
I truly believed that with enough prayer, Andrew would live. We were at war with mortality. We were at war with the Enemy. We were at war with time. How much would he have left? I wanted to reverse it all; I wanted to turn back the clock and save him. Yet I knew all of the rescue scenarios playing through my mind would never work. There was no way to turn back time. All we could do was wait.
Word spread about Andrew’s attempted suicide, and everyone we knew, along with thousands of people we didn’t know, was praying. Waiting and praying, praying and waiting, for hours. Finally, the doctor entered the room to share the test results. His report was quick—just another day on the job for the young doctor. Without an ounce of emotion or empathy, he explained that Andrew’s body had been damaged beyond repair. Our heads fell into our hands and we wept. The sounds emerging from the depths of our souls filled that cold hospital room. Beeping machines and cries of broken, shattered hearts.
I didn’t want to say goodbye; I didn’t want to believe any of this was real. I was angry at God, asking him, “How could you? Why did you allow this to happen? Why Andrew?”
Our room was full of weeping and worship; it was all we could do. We stood around his bedside and read Psalm 23.
The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
I wanted time to lie next to him and hold his warm body for as long as possible. Thankfully God gave us the gift of one last day, but we knew heaven was quickly calling Andrew home. We surrounded Andrew with our love. We played his favorite songs, we cried, we talked, we prayed, and we kept holding out for a miracle. “If only you could wake him up, God. Imagine the testimony he could tell. Imagine how many lives he could impact for you. Imagine how many lives could be saved through his story. God, his boys need him; our church needs him; I need him. God, please.”
Then, just as quickly as the nightmare had started, it was over. With one last breath, he was gone. I lay on the small hospital bed one more time, and I screamed, cried, yelled. And then I said goodbye.
Goodbye to everything.
Goodbye to the love of my life.
Goodbye to growing old together.
Goodbye to life as I knew it.
Goodbye to every dream I ever had.
Goodbye to my best friend.
Goodbye to parenting together.
Goodbye to my beautiful life.
Goodbye to love.
I walked down the hallway to a waiting room full of close friends and family and whispered, “He’s gone.” We held each other and wept in utter disbelief. After a while, someone went to get the car to take us home, and as it pulled into the circle drive, I fell to my knees. It was Andrew’s car, the car he loved to drive as fast as he could down the last long road that led to our home, the car we took on road trips together, just the two of us. I could hardly pull myself off the ground and into the car; the pain was overwhelming.
The day Andrew died will forever be etched into my mind: August 25, 2018, the darkest day of my life. The day everything changed. The day my old life died and a different, unwanted life began. This new life terrified me to my core. It was a life I didn’t want to live alone, a life I hadn’t signed up for. I wanted my old life back. I wanted my guy back. I wanted to wake up from this horrific nightmare.
The next morning, the news of Andrew’s passing was announced at our church, and I made my own announcement on Instagram to update my friends who were praying and to protect and honor my guy. Suicide wouldn’t get the last word.
Last night, the love of my life, the father of my children, and the pastor of our incredible church took his last breath and went to be with Jesus. It wasn’t the miracle I was hoping for, but he is now in heaven with his dad, free of pain, free of depression and anxiety.
He was an amazing husband. He truly made me better, made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world, and he loved me so deeply. We fit so well together; we were one. He was an amazing daddy; his three boys are going to miss him so much. He had such a unique and special relationship with each of them. He was an incredibly gifted teacher, communicator, and pastor. He was special, one of a kind, and will be missed by thousands of people all around the world.
Please pray for me and the boys. I don’t know how I am going to face this. I am completely heartbroken, lost, and empty. Never in a million years would I have imagined this would be the end of his story.
If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or actions, please tell someone. Please make sure you’re not alone, and please call a friend or family member before you make that irreversible decision. You are loved and valued more than you know! #godsgotthis2
As I look back on the words I shared that day, there is one word that stands out boldly to me: decision. It’s a word I have been grappling with since the day of Andrew’s suicide. I have a very difficult time believing his suicide was a decision, and I would rather categorize it as a tragic accident.
I have determined that the words decision and committed are actually the wrong words to attach to suicide. The words committed suicide heap shame and blame onto the shoulders of the person who died. The word committed is one we attach to phrases like “committed a sin” or “committed murder” or “committed a crime.” It ignores the fact that suicide is often the result of underlying mental illness. If someone had a heart condition and experienced a heart attack, we wouldn’t say that person “committed a heart attack.” Dying by suicide is the same, and I believe died by suicide is the best phrase to use. It clearly sends the message that the death was caused by a mental condition, not a decision.
This change in language might seem small or insignificant, but it’s not. Our words matter. Our words carry weight; our words have consequences. Our words have the power to speak life or evoke pain and shame over someone. When we pay attention to the words we use to describe mental health issues, we fling the door wide open for our loved ones to finally feel brave enough to speak up, step out, raise their hands, and say, “I need help.” If we want to save lives and break the stigma, we have to choose our words wisely. Our words should reflect the truth that people matter; they matter to God, and they matter to us. Every single life is valuable, and every single life is worth fighting for.
As our story continued to spread like wildfire, I continued to choose my words carefully. Our story and family photos were all over the news, and I suddenly had thousands of strangers following along on social media. I was shocked and never would have expected people from around the world to be praying for our family, sending letters of encouragement, and flooding our inboxes with messages of kindness and support. These were beautiful gifts to our shattered hearts, and we received them with open arms and gratitude.
Because Andrew had died by suicide, I knew that some people in the “big C” church community would look down on his death with judgment and criticism. I expected to receive harsh responses, but I was surprised to find the opposite from many Christians. Andrew’s death seemed to have cracked open the door for a conversation the Church didn’t know it needed to have, a conversation much bigger than I ever thought possible, all because our family was willing to say the word suicide. We weren’t trying to hide the way that Andrew died. We knew it wasn’t his fault, we knew it wasn’t an “unforgivable sin” or “selfish act,” and we wanted to prevent it from happening to other people. And it has done that. These are just a few of the thousands of messages that flooded my inbox the first week:
I finally reached out and started to get help, and I owe that a lot to you and your family for walking through this with such transparency, resilience, and grace. For the first time in my entire life I believe that I am going to beat this, and I owe it to Pastor Andrew and you. I am so sorry that you are walking through this, but I just wanted you to know that lives are being changed and people, like me, are choosing to live as a result.
It just never “clicked” in my head that I have purpose and [a] reason that Jesus put me on this earth. Until reading your post today. It was the first time someone from the outside of my family has spoken truth that it’s OKAY to struggle. And it doesn’t mean I am broken or not going to heaven or am alone. Sorry for the rambling but your post saved my life. And I felt like you needed to know that. Thank you for being a light to those who need it.
I know you don’t have time or energy to respond to all the messages, but your story is the reason I called my husband’s therapist and told her how bad it really was. Thank you.
While this won’t change the pain and grief you feel, I wanted to tell you God has been working through this—your public grief has saved my life. I was contemplating suicide as I’ve battled a silent battle with anxiety and depression, and then I stumbled across the first blog post you wrote. Andrew’s legacy lives on. I’m alive because of him. Now every dark night, I repeat to myself “God’s got this! God is always enough!” Thank you.
Thank you for choosing to share your story! Because of it my husband and I have decided to continue our therapy. My husband’s depression and shame had led to suicidal thoughts. He is also a pastor. God is using you . . . and I am praying you feel God’s loving presence.
From a mom with a son who is seeking treatment for suicidal thoughts: thank you for sharing your life, your pain, and your journey. It has helped me help my son.
I wanted you to know you are making a difference. Your post encouraged me to check in with both of my adult daughters that struggle with mental health but always say, “It’s no big deal, I can handle it.” Thank you for your words and encouragement to keep asking.
I want you to know you have helped me so much. I’ve been grieving the loss of myself. Knowing I didn’t want to be here anymore but also knowing I have a family I love too much. So I opened up to my husband last night and we are looking into therapists and resources for me. I guarantee that your beautiful posts have affected others this way and I can’t thank you enough.
Every single letter of encouragement made me want to share my grief, my pain, and the things I was learning more. God was planting a burning message inside my heart. After just three days I wrote the first of a series of letters to Andrew. We posted the letter to our family blog, God’s Got This.
To My Andrew,
It’s only been 3 days. Nothing can take away the suffocating pain I feel now that you are gone. I miss every part of you, I see you everywhere. I replay the events of that fateful day over and over again in my mind wishing I could have done things differently. Wishing I could have held your hand one more time and prayed over you and told you how much I love you, how much I believe in you, and how God’s got this too.
You were right all along; I truly didn’t understand the depths of your depression and anxiety. I didn’t understand how real and how relentless the spiritual attacks were. The pain, the fear, and the turmoil you must have been dealing with every single day is unimaginable. The enemy knew what an amazing man you were. The enemy knew God had huge plans for your life. The enemy saw how God was using your gifts, abilities, and unique teaching style to reach thousands of lives for Him. The enemy hated it and he pursued you incessantly. Taunting you and torturing you in ways that you were unable to express to anyone.
Andrew, I want to tell you from the depths of my heart and my pain that I am so sorry.
I am so sorry you were so scared.
I am so sorry you felt so alone.
I am so sorry you felt misunderstood.
I am so sorry you felt betrayed and deeply hurt by the words and actions of others.
I am so sorry you were fighting a dark, spiritual war virtually alone.
I am so sorry you were unable to fully get the help and support you needed.
I wish I had one more chance to hold you and cry with you and encourage you. I wish you could see the outpouring of love from people all over the world who have been impacted by your story. I wish you could hold your boys one more time and tell them goodbye. I wish we could go on one more trip together, just the two of us. I am not ready to say goodbye. I am so madly and deeply in love with you. Every part of me longs to be with you. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t function, and I feel so lost without you. You were my life. I was so proud to be your wife, Andrew. I was so proud to sit in the front row and watch you in your sweet spot on stage. I was always so amazed by you, every single day. You could do anything you set your mind to! You were handy, you made every home we lived in look beautiful inside and out. You were creative, you were funny, you were thoughtful, you were passionate, you had vision, you had charisma, and you were so special. You are irreplaceable, Andrew. There will never be another man like you.
I want to tell you that I am never going to stop fighting for you. I will continue to tell our community and our world what an amazing man you were. Your name will be honored, and you will be remembered as a hero. You fought the good fight, and I can only imagine the incredible place God had prepared for you when you walked through the gates of heaven. I can only imagine what it must have felt like to see your dad again, healthy and strong. I can only imagine how much joy you must feel now that you are truly free. I wish I could be there with you, celebrating on the streets of gold. But for now, I will continue to live for you. I will raise our boys to be men of God, just like you were. Your name will live on in a powerful way. Your story has the power to save lives, change lives, and transform the way the Church supports pastors.
I love you so much and I will miss you every single day for the rest of my life. When I think of you I will smile, knowing that I will see you again one day. Thank you for 10 wonderful years together. Thank you for giving me the gift of three beautiful blue-eyed boys who all resemble you. Thank you for choosing me, for believing in me, and for showing me how to live fearlessly.
Until we meet again, I will cling to my Father in heaven. He will carry me through every second, every minute, every hour of every day. I read a verse this morning and I know God is reminding me that even now, in the midst of my deepest pain, He has got this.
“Because you are close to me and always available, my confidence will never be shaken, for I experience your wrap-around presence every moment” [(Ps. 16:8 TPT).]
With all my heart and all my love,
Your Girl3
Compassion isn’t always the first response to suicide, but it should be. We will never fully understand the mystery of a suicidal mind. Unless we have experienced it ourselves, we will never fully know the depth of anguish that leads to suicide. Suicide is a tragedy, and no one is to blame. We cannot blame ourselves, we cannot blame others, and we cannot even place blame on our loved one who died. It has been said before, “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Maybe those we’ve lost to suicide truly believed their pain would never end and death was the only doorway to peace. I will never know what those final moments were like for Andrew, but I deeply believe his death wasn’t his fault.
After I lost Andrew, I sat with close family and friends among the shrapnel of an explosion we never saw coming. We also sat with God. The presence of God filled every space of the home as I huddled with safe people to process the pain. When I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, God caught my tears. When I wondered how I would get through another day, God made a way. When I worried about what the future might look like, God continued working on my behalf to craft a beautiful redemption plan.
The Wilderness
As I think back to the story of Jesus in the wilderness, when he was worn out and weary after fasting for forty days and standing up to attacks from the Enemy, I see God sitting with him too. God didn’t leave him alone in his pain and exhaustion; instead the Scripture says that God sent angels to comfort him. “The Test was over. The Devil left. And in his place, angels! Angels came and took care of Jesus’ needs” (Matt. 4:11 THE MESSAGE). This is what God does. He holds us, he comforts us, and he sustains us when we have nothing left. “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed” (Ps. 34:18 NLT).
God wants nothing more than to be close to us in our pain. I’ll never forget Andrew’s last message from the stage, less than a week before he died, titled “Mess to Masterpiece.” He talked about how “mess” is the thing we all have in common. We are all a mess, none of us have it figured out, all of us are broken, and all of us fall short. It’s the mess that brings us together and draws God near. If we weren’t all a mess, we wouldn’t need God.
Near the end of his message Andrew posed a question. “What is it in your mess or in your season that God is trying to do in you?”4 It’s a beautiful question, isn’t it? When we ask this question from the depths of our pain, we can be rescued from a victim mentality and instead be motivated to take the next step toward healing. It’s a question that can change the game, change the outcome, change our lives forever—if we let it. The truth is, God always has a rescue plan. There isn’t a single situation or circumstance that’s too messy for him. When we feel like everything has fallen apart and our life is in disarray, we can stop and say, “What is God trying to do in me?”
Despite our mess he calls us his masterpiece. “For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” (Eph. 2:10 NLT). The word masterpiece comes from the Greek word poiema, from which we get the word poem. Just like a poem ebbs and flows, has ups and downs and highs and lows, so do we. From the moment we are born until the moment we take our last breath, we are God’s instruments, his poiema. He is the master artist. He sets the scene, he writes the ballad, he decides the tone, and he determines the depth and breadth of its entirety. It’s all up to him. When we realize control is just an illusion, we can let go, sit back, and let the master artist do his best work. We can allow him to write the script of becoming. We don’t become who we want to become on our own. We only become someone when we realize it was never about us in the first place.
Before Andrew wrapped up that message, the very last one he would ever preach, he gave a challenge and a prayer. The challenge was this, “Tune in to what God is already trying to do in you.”5 We are all becoming. We are all poiema. We are all a work in progress. We are all a masterpiece in the making. We have all sinned, fallen short, and need a savior. Recognizing our need for him, we can surrender and step into his mighty rescue plan. He invites us to follow him in the middle of our mess, and he promises to lead us from the darkest of circumstances into the light. “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).
As we tune in to what God is already trying to do, the next step is to surrender through prayer. The prayer Andrew prayed that day was simple: “Heavenly Father, complete the work you’ve begun in me.”6 It doesn’t have to be complicated. It’s simply recognizing that he is the artist, and we are the instruments. The masterpiece he is creating through each of our lives is unique, profound, deep, challenging, and beautiful.
As I sat with the overwhelming pain of Andrew’s tragic death, I chose surrender. I was in over my head, drowning in a mess way too big for my mind to comprehend. I needed God more than I’d ever needed him before. I didn’t want to be anywhere but close to him. Even in those dark, bleak moments, I felt a stirring in my soul. God, the master artist, the author of my poiema, was already working on the next line, the next rhyme, a new ballad to come. My life, his masterpiece, wasn’t finished yet.