Years ago I started a blog that I kept for 6 years. It chronicled my life as a single young woman, my work as a youth pastor, an intercessory missionary, a nightwatchman. It logged my struggles with depression, weight loss, scripture, romance, divorce, marriage, ministry, medication, infertility, prayer. Marriage and babies spread the posts thinner and thinner, and by the time my first born was 16 months old, they’d stopped altogether. I closed it down and locked it up tight about a year ago.
I cannot tell you exactly why my well dried up, why I stopped writing, but I can tell you why I am starting again.
It’s been six months since the last time I thought I would kill myself. Six months since I’ve had to call my husband to come home from work because I didn’t think my kids were safe. Six months since I left the bottom of the pit.
Maybe it was the days beginning to stretch out, or the garden slowly coming up, but there was a day in the middle of Spring when I heard a deep part of me say , “This could be the end.” I looked at my tiny, shimmering daughters, then looked at my gray, empty face. If I killed myself, my children would not be free of a broken mother, they would just have a dead mother; my husband would not be relieved a bad wife, he would just have a dead wife. Who wants to be their three year old’s dead mother?
So I cried out to the Lord.
He answered me. “I will show you how to live,” he said.
And so I lived.
I should have died, but I lived.
Had this been the first time I’d been down in that pit, the first time I was consumed with death, the first time I was rescued, it might not be so impressive. But my story, my song, is the same refrain again and again, louder and louder, I SHOULD HAVE DIED, BUT I LIVED. Between the knives I’ve held to my own flesh, the ledges I’ve curled my toes over, the evil I’ve yoked myself with, the pills I’ve rolled around in my mouth, the toxic foods and fluids I’ve poured into my body year after year after year, there is no accounting for my life today.
And that is why I am writing again.
I am writing because my well is full of I SHOULD HAVE DIED, BUT I LIVED. And that is something that should be written about.