When I was growing up, my mother was a talented artist. Our house was filled with the beautiful things she created. She spent hours painting works of art that made you wonder whether you were looking at a photograph or an oil painting. She could sculpt with clay, design clothing, and paint in a variety of mediums. She found great joy in the creative process and wanted to share that joy with the people she loved most.
But my mother had a darker side.
If she became frustrated, she would begin yelling at whoever happened to be nearby.
These episodes could last for hours and often ended only when she was physically exhausted. As a child, I frequently found myself in the crosshairs of her frustration. When that happened, my goal was simple: outlast the yelling. If I could just endure until she ran out of energy, the rest of the day might be peaceful.
A Bipolar Perfectionist
Years later she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but at the time I thought this was normal. I assumed this was what growing up looked like for everyone.
The conflict within her was obvious. She struggled to accept imperfection within herself, so she projected it onto the people around her – her husband, her neighbors, and her children.
With the skill of an accomplished storyteller, she could describe in vivid detail how disappointing others were, whenever they failed to meet her expectations for perfection.
When her artwork wasn’t perfect, when the house wasn’t clean, or when the food wasn’t prepared just right, frustration would rise within her and spill out on everyone around her.
The imperfections she saw in herself were eventually placed on me.
I became the embodiment of everything that was wrong.
I was stupid.
I was lazy.
I was talentless.
At least, that is what I came to believe.
In her mind, I was the reason beauty and order could not flourish around her. She wasn’t the problem. I was.
As a result, I lived in a constant state of fight-or-flight. I knew blame would eventually be placed on me, like the scapegoat of old. I just never knew when it would happen or how severe the punishment would be. I remember being afraid to come home from school.
Would I be greeted by an artist excited about what she had created that day?
Or by someone who needed a verbal punching bag to ease her own pain?
Anxiety became my companion and protector.
Years later, I learned that experiences like these are often described as emotional abuse. The effects of long-term emotional abuse frequently include depression, anxiety, shame, and self-doubt.
What it formed in me was a deep belief that I was worthless.
Worthlessness is a heavy burden.
If left unchecked, it can lead your mind down dark alleys or drop you off in the gutter. For me, the gutter was the belief that life was no longer worth living.
At eighteen years of age, I decided to try and end my life.
Embracing Worthlessness
As I embraced worthlessness, I planned on taking it to its logical conclusion. I was exhausted from hoping things would change. Exhausted from believing tomorrow might be better than today. Exhausted from being a verbal punching bag, or the reason things didn’t work out for others.
Obviously, I never carried out my destructive plans, but only because of the grace of God.
When a person is willing to lay down their life, Jesus is often much closer than they realize.
– Chuck Whitley
Looking back, I don’t know why I never considered turning to Him sooner. Perhaps I had been in survival mode for so long that I couldn’t imagine anyone helping me—not even God.
What I didn’t understand then, but understand now, is that death often comes before resurrection.
Jesus used that moment to reveal Himself and show me a new way of being alive.
This is how it happened.
In my hopelessness I decided to try and drawn myself. So, one December morning, I drove to a mountain reservoir to carry out my plan.
I can still picture the beauty of that morning. The sun was just peeking over the tree tops. The early morning rays kissed the surface of the still waters. The reservoir seemed peaceful, almost as though it were waiting for something to happen.
The air was cold, and a thin layer of ice had formed along the shoreline.
My mind was clear.
My will was set.
As I stepped into the icy water, my feet went numb almost instantly. I remember thinking, “This is going to work.”
As I swung my arms back to launch myself into the water, I heard a voice.
“Why don’t you give Me a try?”
I froze.
Startled and embarrassed, I immediately turned around. “Who is watching me?” I wondered. I looked behind me and saw no one.
“Hello?” I called out.
Silence.
I stood there trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then a thought occurred to me.
Maybe that was God.
I wasn’t raised in church and had no framework for experiences like this. I didn’t know the story of Moses and the burning bush. I didn’t know about Paul encountering Jesus on the road to Damascus. I didn’t know that God has a long history of interrupting people’s plans and redirecting their lives.
As I considered the possibility that God was speaking to me, anger rose up within me.
Not a little anger.
Years of buried anger.
“Now You’re going to talk to me?” I thought.
Where were You when I cried myself to sleep at night?
Where were You when I believed I was the reason other people couldn’t be happy?
Where were You when I felt completely alone?
But now – now at the end – You decide to show up?
For the first time in my life, all of that anger had permission to be seen. As if, my whole self was invited to this meeting.
I threw my fist into the air as if I was trying to punch the sky and shouted, “Okay, God, if that’s You, I’ll make You a deal! I’ll go wherever You want me to go! I’ll do whatever You want me to do! I’ll even go to church on Sunday, if You’ll only make me happy!”
The moment the word “happy” left my mouth, something strange happened. I felt what I can only describe as warm peacefulness enter my body.
It began in my head and slowly moved down through the rest of me. It felt as though God enthusiastically replied, “Deal.”
The Warmth of Hope
I stood there in the icy water while peace warmed my heart. For the first time in years, I felt hope.
I felt like I could handle anything.
I could handle my mother.
I could handle being misunderstood.
I could handle whatever life brought my way.
Not because my problems had disappeared, but because I was no longer facing them alone.
I remained there for several minutes trying to process what had just happened.
A Strange Baptism
As I stood there in the icy water, the warm rays of the morning sun shown down on me with a nod of approval.
The only witness to a strange baptism.
No pastor.
No church building.
No worship band.
Just Jesus meeting me at the end of my rope, encouraging me to stand beside Him.
As I walked back to my car, I remember saying, “Man, I need to find a church and figure out what just happened.”
That Sunday, I went to church for the first time.
For years, I thought my story was unusual, until I started sharing it. Again and again, people would approach me and quietly say, “God spoke to me too.”
Some described hearing God’s voice. Others would tell me that they are a Christian because they saw an angel.
None of them felt like they could share, for fear of being judged. But when I led the way, this gave them permission to share their story.
God Still Speaks
Over time I began to notice a pattern. Jesus is in the habit of calling people to Himself.
- What do we do with experiences like these?
- Do we dismiss them as rare events reserved for the ultra-spiritual or the ultra-desperate?
- Does God only speak when someone is first coming to faith?
- Or are these experiences invitations into something more?
Perhaps they are God’s way of saying, “I am here. Let’s get to know each other.”
I have come to believe that God still speaks.
– Chuck Whitley
I am not suggesting that personal experiences carry the same authority as Scripture. They do not. Scripture remains our foundation and our guide.
But God still speaks.
He speaks in ways both ordinary and extraordinary. He speaks through Scripture, prayer, wise counsel, circumstances, conviction, and at times in ways we can not explain.
But Which Voice?
The challenge, however, is that not every voice we hear is God’s voice.
Some voices come from our wounds.
Some come from our fears.
Some come from our desires, assumptions, and expectations.
And sometimes we simply mistake our own thoughts for God’s leading.
This is the central challenge of discernment.
God speaks, but we must learn to recognize His voice among the many others competing for our attention.
The good news is that discernment is not about getting everything right.
It is about growing in relationship.
Like every good Father, God is patient with His children. He knows we will misunderstand Him at times. He knows we will make mistakes. Yet He continues to guide us, teach us, and invite us deeper into relationship with Him.
The goal is not perfection.
The goal to recognize the voice of the One who has is always drawing us deeper into relationship with Himself.