The day I stood on the edgeDagen jeg stod på kanten

There's something pastors rarely say from the pulpit.

Today I'm sharing my darkest moment.

It started with a hand.

Openchurch in Herning had launched, and everything was wonderful. But my hand would suddenly go numb, and my doctor recommended an operation. I was reluctant, but he reassured me: your life will be better afterward. So I trusted him and took the leap.

What was supposed to be a routine procedure became a turning point. A nerve was damaged. What remained was a hand that burned day and night, as if it were lying in boiling water. No anesthetic could ease it.

In the middle of the pain, the responsibility was heavy. Father of three lovely girls. Pastor of a wonderful and growing church. Teacher at a Bible school an hour to an hour and a half away. And pastor training with Saddleback Church in thirteen locations across Europe. Two days every six months … times thirteen :-)

I couldn't say no. "It's for the Lord," I told myself. Again and again.

As if God wanted me to run myself into the ground.

In 2009, in the middle of the rush of running a youth conference in Denmark, an unexpected moment of reflection came.

Steve Gambill was our guest speaker that weekend. He came from Bradford in England. He looked me in the eyes and asked gently, in his warm American accent:

Thomas, are you enjoying being in ministry?

On the outside I answered with an optimistic "yes!"

On the inside, a small voice whispered a completely different truth.

The pain and the responsibility had eclipsed the joy and the purpose. And in that darkness a thought began to grow: the thought of putting an end to it all. It beckoned like a solution, an escape from the relentless pain.

It was a cold winter day. The snow lay like a blanket over the world. I stood on the edge and considered the dark solution. I had even decided how, where and when.

But 200 meters from the place I stopped the car and pulled over, as if an invisible hand were holding me back.

There I sat. Far too long. I managed to send a text message and called in sick to the Bible school. And I stayed sitting there.

While I sat there, God stepped in. Not with a miracle. With people.

My father-in-law called, at exactly the right moment. That call became the lifeline I desperately needed.

And when I afterward dared to say it out loud, to Christina, my wife, and to my fellow pastors at Openchurch, the real turning point happened: admitting the depth of my despair and reaching out for help. They stood by my side and helped me through the darkness.

Gradually I was built up again. The focus shifted from my achievements to God's love and grace.

And one day it became clear to me:

God did not love me because of what I accomplished.

He loved me for who I was.

His child.

It took time. But the lies that had held me captive crumbled.

Today I think with gratitude of Steve's question. It was not an attack. It was a life ring.

I'm telling this because I know that some of you reading it know that edge.

Not necessarily the same one. But the pressure that doesn't lift. The smile you hold up, even though everything inside is screaming. The sense that everyone else has it together.

It's not a lack of faith to feel that way.

It's being human.

God doesn't meet us with: "Pull yourself together."

He meets us the way he met Elijah under the broom bush, with care, food and presence. Before he said a single word about what was to happen next.

What are you carrying that no one else knows?

And who is the one person you could say it to?

You are not alone. And it's okay not to be okay.

Please share this if you know someone who needs it. Mental health is a condition of life, not a weakness. And if you yourself need someone to talk to right now, you can call Livslinien at 70 201 201.

Der er noget præster sjældent siger fra prædikestolen.

I dag deler jeg mit mørkeste øjeblik.

Det startede med en hånd.

Åbenkirke i Herning var startet, og alt var skønt. Men min hånd kunne pludselig blive følelsesløs, og min læge anbefalede en operation. Jeg var modvillig, men han beroligede mig: dit liv bliver bedre bagefter. Så jeg stolede på ham og tog springet.

Det, der skulle have været et rutineindgreb, blev et vendepunkt. En nerve blev beskadiget. Tilbage var en hånd, der dag og nat brændte, som om den lå i kogende vand. Ingen bedøvelse kunne dulme det.

Midt i smerten var ansvaret stort. Far til tre dejlige piger. Præst i en vidunderlig og voksende kirke. Lærer på en bibelskole en til halvanden time væk. Og præstetræning med Saddleback Church på tretten steder i Europa. To dage hvert halve år … gange tretten :-)

Jeg kunne ikke sige nej. "Det er for Herren," sagde jeg til mig selv. Igen og igen.

Som om Gud ville have mig til at løbe mig selv i sænk.

I 2009, midt i travlheden med at afvikle en konference for unge i Danmark, kom der et uventet øjeblik af refleksion.

Steve Gambill var vores gæstetaler den weekend. Han kom fra Bradford i England. Han så mig ind i øjnene og spurgte forsigtigt, med sin varme amerikanske accent:

Thomas, nyder du at være i tjeneste?

Udadtil svarede jeg med et optimistisk "ja!"

Indadtil hviskede en lille stemme en helt anden sandhed.

Smerten og ansvaret havde skygget for glæden og formålet. Og i det mørke begyndte en tanke at fylde: tanken om at gøre en ende på det hele. Den lokkede som en løsning, en flugt fra den ubarmhjertige smerte.

Det var en kold vinterdag. Sneen lagde sig som et tæppe over verden. Jeg stod på kanten og overvejede den mørke løsning. Jeg havde endda besluttet hvordan, hvor og hvornår.

Men 200 meter fra stedet stoppede jeg bilen og holdt ind til siden, som om en usynlig hånd holdt mig tilbage.

Der sad jeg. Alt for længe. Jeg fik sendt en sms af sted og sygemeldte mig fra bibelskolen. Og jeg blev siddende.

Mens jeg sad der, greb Gud ind. Ikke med et mirakel. Med mennesker.

Min svigerfar ringede, på præcis det rette tidspunkt. Det opkald blev den livline, jeg desperat havde brug for.

Og da jeg efterfølgende turde sige det højt, til Christina, min hustru, og til mine præstekolleger i Åbenkirke, skete det egentlige vendepunkt: at erkende dybden af min fortvivlelse og række ud efter hjælp. De stod ved min side og hjalp mig gennem mørket.

Gradvist blev jeg bygget op igen. Fokus flyttede sig fra mine præstationer til Guds kærlighed og nåde.

Og en dag stod det klart for mig:

Gud elskede mig ikke på grund af hvad jeg udrettede.

Han elskede mig for den jeg var.

Hans barn.

Det tog tid. Men de løgne, der havde holdt mig fanget, smuldrede.

I dag tænker jeg med taknemmelighed på Steves spørgsmål. Det var ikke et angreb. Det var en redningskrans.

Jeg fortæller det, fordi jeg ved at nogle af jer der læser dette, kender den kant.

Ikke nødvendigvis den samme. Men presset der ikke letter. Smilet man holder oppe, selvom alt indeni skriger. Fornemmelsen af at alle andre har styr på det.

Det er ikke manglende tro at have det sådan.

Det er at være menneske.

Gud møder os ikke med: "Tag dig nu sammen."

Han møder os som han mødte Elias under gyvelbusken, med omsorg, mad og nærvær. Inden han sagde et eneste ord om hvad der skulle ske næste gang.

Hvad holder du på, som ingen andre ved?

Og hvem er den ene person, du ville kunne sige det til?

Du er ikke alene. Og det er okay ikke at have det godt.

Del gerne dette, hvis du kender nogen der har brug for det. Mental sundhed er et livsvilkår, ikke en svaghed. Og har du selv brug for nogen at tale med lige nu, kan du ringe til Livslinien på 70 201 201.