In The Darkness, A Glimmer of Hope: A Firefighter's Story Of Survival and Support

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was having a really tough day. When I say a tough day, I mean that the darkness was overtaking me. And when I say the darkness, I’m talking about the weight of PTSD. I was done. I was tapping out. I didn’t want to be in this world anymore. The roller coaster ride in my head wouldn’t stop, and I was desperately searching for relief. I was completely void of hope that afternoon. Hope is what propels us through the storms in our lives. Hope is what keeps us moving forward. But in that moment, in that afternoon, in the darkness of my thoughts, my only hope was rest—rest with the Father in heaven.

I had once responded to a suicide call. We were called to a parking lot where a man had duct-taped a dryer vent to the exhaust pipe of his car and fed the vent through the rear window. He had a bottle of whiskey and had turned on the radio before going to sleep. I always thought that was an ingenious way to end one’s life. I remember, during that call, thinking that if I ever were to end my life, that’s how I would do it.

That Tuesday afternoon, my mind was made up. I had a plan in place. I was circling the drain, and I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted my mind to stop. I got into my truck and started driving to the local home improvement store to buy 5' of dryer vent. I was already thinking about what I would write in my note, and the things I wanted to say to the special people in my life. As I drove that fateful afternoon, my phone rang. It was a good friend, a retired sheriff’s deputy, calling me out of the blue. Right away, he asked, “Are you okay, brother?” I replied, “I’m not okay.” While he was talking me off the ledge, another call came in. It was a fire captain, another friend. I ignored the call. Then he called again. And I ignored it again. Then he called a third time. Immediately, I thought something might be wrong with him, so I got off the phone with my friend and called him back. The first thing he said was, “Are you doing all right? I was just checking on you.” I told him that I was in a bad place. My friends succeeded in talking me off the ledge that dark afternoon. Instead of going to the home improvement store, I went home. And that is why I’m alive to tell you this story today. I don’t believe in coincidences. Nothing happens by mistake. Something greater was in play. God, the Father, intervened that day. In that moment, hope returned to my heart. I felt like somebody cared. I didn’t feel alone anymore. Hope is what ultimately keeps us alive.

The moral of this dismal story is this: Ask the question! If you see a brother or sister acting off, or if you feel compelled to ask, then ask the question, “Are you okay?” That one little question could save someone’s life. It can show someone struggling with PTSD that somebody cares. That one question could give someone hope. I challenge you to do this: The next time you see a brother or sister struggling, please ask them if they are okay. It’s a simple question. It takes less than two seconds to ask, but it could make a lifetime of difference for someone who is suffering.