From the knife

I was about seven years old the first time I contemplated suicide. I don’t recall how I even knew the concept, let alone the procedure at such a young age, but the happenings left only scars in my memory of the day I found myself found by God for the first time.

I remember entering the kitchen in the only home I knew at the time enraged with hate. My heart was fluttering with vengeance and my mind racing with spite. I stood in the kitchen thinking, listening to the enemy’s lies.

I thought about the satisfaction I would have in knowing the regret I would cause them all. The regret my sister would feel, terrorized by her own guilt of how she treated me. The afflictions my parents would bare for allowing such treatment to fall upon me time after time. I would be remembered—I told myself—I would be worthy of their tears and valued as what they couldn’t have.

I reached for the knife, no swiftness involved, I stood there—nervous and still.

The knife was in my right hand, and my eyes were set on my left wrist. I stood there, listening to the lies, listening in the silence of my soul but with the screams of my mind.

It was but a moment later that I was encountered with the most powerful voice I have ever experienced—and it was nothing less than an experience, indeed.

Overwhelmed I heard one simple statement. One simple statement that saved my little life: “I love you.”

This was a voice that was beyond my mind’s own, beyond what I could even compose in my imagination. This was the voice of my Savior. He spoke it in truth, He spoke it in confirmation. He spoke it for my saving.

It was that day that I, as a suicidal seven year old girl, had life spoken into me for the very first time. A rushing confirmation of His enduring love for me was poured over me in that moment. I.was.loved.

It was all I needed to know, and I knew it. I knew it because I experienced it, and although I cannot fully explain it, even now, I know what I know and I know what I know.

The love of my creator was the only thing that I understood. I didn’t understand why or how it transformed me that day, but I was different thereafter: I had a seed of hope, planted by God.

Even the situations of my childhood do not align with this divine communication of love. I was not raised in church, I did not have a Bible. I don’t remember ever praying on my own. But God spoke to me. God saved me.

I love Him, because He first loved me.

God has spoken to me since. In my deepest moments of anguish or seeking I have heard His voice. And in my simple asking in the most trivial of circumstances, I have heard His voice. He answered me when I pleaded to know if I should sever an unrighteous relationship, at the moment I began truly seeking His will—and actually listened, He answered.

He answered me when I needed to know if my mom would be okay. He interrupted me through my sobs and turned my weeping into praising.

He whispers truths into my depths as I seek Him throughout my days.

The Lord is my shepherd.