It was less than two years ago when I met him. I was about to walk along the beach on a Sunday night. He came out of nowhere and I saw his lips moving. I took my headphones out and asked him what he'd said.
He wanted to know if I'd seen his friend whom he'd lost. He'd been drinking. He kept talking. His heart was quick to tumble from his lips. He walked alongside me. He had an estranged relationship with his father. He was living with his mother. He was a prolific reader and an intellectual man in his early twenties. He didn't have close friends. He was isolated. His soul was screaming with the high pitch of longing that he couldn't conceal.
It got dark and began to rain. He had no money or way of getting home. I gave him a ride. I had told him about my beliefs and we discussed Jesus as a historical figure and what he struggled to believe could be true. He commented on the literary features of the Bible and was open to discussion. He offered me a cup of tea.
His living quarters were humble, to say the least. Once under the light I noticed the blood. He'd hurt himself and the blood from his shin was seeping through his blue jeans. I helped clean and dress the wound. I soaked the sprinkling of blood on his mother's white carpet. We laughed about the adventitious nature of the encounter as he microwaved a cup of instant coffee made with tap water for me. I only had three mouthfuls. He sat and talked as he ate an entire frozen strawberry cheesecake. He mentioned issues with addiction, depression and loneliness.
We formed a friendship where we'd drink coffee and I'd share theological literature. I introduced him to my closest friends from church, where he would also attend a service that provoked more thought.
He drank far too much coffee and his mental health was unstable. He practiced self-sabotaging behaviours that he was conscious of, but powerless over. He wanted to numb the relentless pain he felt.
He went on an army training course and when we had coffee afterward he seemed better. He had developed routine and daily disciplines. He was motivated and moving towards becoming more integrated in society. His soul had not been satisfied in a Saviour and He was indifferent to His sin, but I was pleased that he was feeling better about his life. When I stopped hearing back from him I assumed it was because of his new studies and job prospects, his 'new life.'
I was nannying recently when the oldest boy announced that someone he knew had committed suicide. I expressed my sympathy. He told me his name and I froze. It couldn't be. No. That would be unbearable. And it couldn't possibly be the same person. He showed me a photo on his laptop screen.
It turns out that his life had not improved as vastly as I had hoped or assumed. He had become even more isolated and his complicated mental health issues had not dissipated. His soul was downcast and he had known no rest. His days were so dark and he had no solid rock on which to stand, no future hope to cling to. He had been one of the most intelligent individuals I had ever met, and yet his despair so intense that he didn't know what to do with it.
Suicide is an all-to-painful reminder of the urgency in sharing the gospel. Our days are numbered. When the Bible says that life is but a breath, it's true. People are hurting and struggling and living in sin that has very real consequences. Let our eternal perspective be strong and our hearts be for the lost.
Scarlett Jones resides by the seaside and loves reading, films, craft and quality time with friends and family.
Scarlett Jones' previous articles may be viewed at http://www.pressserviceinternational.org/scarlett-jones.html