Excerpt
God Chose Me
Chapter 1You Are Loved at Your LowestThis is the end. It’s over. Your time has come. The plane is going down and no one else is to blame. There is nothing left to do. You are going down, this is it. This is the end of your story.
—Personal journal, April 2020
My body physically remembers the hopelessness I felt when I wrote those words. I was curled underneath my desk at work, writing what I believed would be the final journal entry and letter to those I left behind. I felt alone, hopeless and helpless. My soul felt as dark as the ocean floor, and the pressure was crushing me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. No matter how much I wanted things to be different, this was it. This was my reality. At the age of twenty-six, I was going to take my own life.
I found myself stuck in the tension of who I was, who I could be, and who I wanted to be. For as long as I can remember, there has been a war going on inside of me. A quiet yet tumultuous war between two stories. In one story I was happy, full of life. I made the best choices for my life, lived joyfully, and stayed committed to my values. In the other story, I cast off all responsibility. I gave up trying to achieve and essentially said forget it. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. Why? Because I didn’t want the pressure of who I “could be.” I don’t know the genesis of this war; however, this internal battle had ravaged my soul so much that the idea of giving up felt far more realistic than continuing to fight. I believed that something was broken or missing in me and that there was no chance I would ever find the missing pieces that everyone else seemed to have.
I grew up going to church, so I know the Bible. The Scriptures contain a book of songs, titled Psalms, primarily written by a man named David. The 150 songs found in this book convey the whole gamut of human emotion—from the beauty and joy of victory to even anguish and deep frustration with God. I titled what I thought was my last journal entry “Psalm 151.” This was my last hope and appeal to God. The pain, turmoil, and emptiness had become so overwhelming, and I saw no other option but to end my life. The letter I wrote reflects how far I felt from God, from hope, from living. I saw no light at the end of my tunnel. Let me give you a little backstory to help you understand how I got here.
2020: “The Year That Changed the World”
It was 2020 and, like everyone else, I was having a typical year.
Until I wasn’t.
The fabric of the earth, society, media, health, truth—everything—seemed to split wide-open with no hope or help in sight in March of 2020. We plunged into a global pandemic that shut down our world in an unparalleled manner. Physical sickness turned political as people grasped for power over the virus. The debate of mask-or-no-mask became the divider of households. Racial tensions spun out of control. George Floyd cried out to his mother. There were riots in the streets in response to the many instances where police had shot black men and women over the years. It seemed as if every evil, twisted, dark plan had been unleashed simultaneously and we were all caught in this tornado, not knowing which way was up or down. No matter your “side,” there was a general sense of chaos that seemed to cut through the safety and sense of security we all desperately cling to.
Like for many others during this time, my place of work moved to my home. The only problem? I didn’t have a home. Or rather, I had a roof over my head; it just wasn’t mine. I was living in the bonus room of my in-laws’ house with my fifteen-month-old son and eight-months-pregnant wife. My in-laws’ offer to let us stay with them at this time was one of the kindest acts of generosity toward our growing family. (Thank you, Mom and BC!)
I was navigating the waters of being stuck in one place, a complete lack of socialization, and worries about whether my family would be safe. During this time, while I was practicing social distancing to protect myself and my family, I failed to realize I was also growing distant from something else: God. I am not sure when or how it happened, but His voice drifted into the background and all the other worries of life took over. I could no longer see His hand or feel His love. I grew cold, empty, and hopeless, becoming a shell of the joy and laughter I once carried. My once boisterous spirit slowly began to fade into a deep depression. It was as though I had a slow leak in my tire. I found myself stranded in a place I did not recognize, with no clear way out.
The combination of all these feelings manifested as unpredictable panic attacks. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my soul was screaming for help like a hostage tied up in the darkest room. No one could hear, no one could see, and I was too unaware to ask for the help I needed. What started as a fuzzy feeling in my mind grew to an unceasing hurricane of fear and whirling thoughts. Thinking that maybe I just needed more sleep, I took sleep medicine—but that was useless. My body was tired, but my mind kept on racing. This storm turned into a heaviness in my chest, a weight on my shoulders, a heat behind my ears, and a tingle in my hands. Every six hours or so, I would suddenly be propelled onto what felt like my last roller-coaster ride. I would shake, struggle to breathe, fall to my knees, and cry out for my wife, who would come running to hold me until I stopped trembling. It was my first time experiencing the humiliation and debilitation of a panic attack.
I vividly remember one night in particular.
Four a.m. Friends
I had been fighting demons all day, on the verge of a panic attack throughout meetings and calls, and I finally made it home to my safe place. I had dinner with my family and a laugh with my son. Then I walked into our bedroom closet, and it hit—the spinning at the front of my mind, the pounding of my heart, the weight on my neck. My legs gave out and I fell to the floor. Yelling for help as though I were getting mugged, I curled into a ball and waited for my wife, Abby. She came and hugged me, brought me a cold rag, and rubbed my neck, but it wouldn’t stop. My mind kept spinning, I couldn’t breathe, and my vision was blurry. It was terrifying. She helped me stumble to our bed, where I curled into the fetal position, shaking and crying uncontrollably. In an effort to end the terror, I closed my eyes and drifted into a panicked sleep.
I awoke to voices whispering in the background. It was 2 A.M. I felt a strong hand on the back of my neck. “Charles, we’re all here.” I immediately felt relief—and shame. It was my friends. My wife had called them in the middle of the night. They had gotten out of bed, loaded up their children, and were now in my bedroom. Aaron was standing at the foot of the bed. Mike was to my left, sitting on my nightstand. Natalie was behind him. Abby was sitting by me, and on my left was Brie.
I have the strongest and most incredible friends ever. They are each influential and powerful in their own way. Each has their own set of divinely contracted superpowers. I love them, and they love me. But I also admire them. And truthfully, I wanted them to admire me too. I wanted them to think I was impressive, to feel that I could handle whatever life threw at me. And yet here I was, falling apart in my own house. I felt insignificant, embarrassed, and small.
This can’t be happening, I thought to myself. What if I lose my job, my title, my leadership? “See? I told you . . . you aren’t enough. You can’t handle it” said my internal critic. What if people start to second-guess whether I’m cut out for this role and ministry altogether? What is wrong with me?
Just as I uttered those silent words in my head, Brie said aloud, “Charles, there is nothing wrong with you.”
I broke. Salty tears began to stream down my face as my body slowly stopped its tremor. It wasn’t Brie who was talking to me. I mean, it was—but I knew it also wasn’t. There is only one man who has a track record of knowing our thoughts. There is only one person kind enough to hear our cries and answer through a friend. Jesus spoke to me. He comforted my broken heart and lifted my weary head. He was the deep breath I couldn’t take and the strength I needed to see another day. In that one moment He looked past my hurt and saw my pain. He validated and valued who I was, just as I was. For the next two hours, my friends comforted and encouraged me. They spoke life-giving words over me and left notes all over my house, encouraging me toward light and hope.
There is much more to this story. More panic attacks. Many more fears. A long journey of counseling, accountability, rest, and finding out who I really was. But what I want to highlight is this: I was loved at my lowest. When I felt the least worthy, the least capable, the least qualified, and least likely to be chosen, it was at that very moment I realized I am still loved. At my lowest. At my worst. When the pain hits like a ton of bricks. When my talent is of no use. When money has no value and when it seems I have nothing to offer but myself.
That’s the moment I found out I am loved. That’s when I knew God Chose Me.
