Three Reflections on My Sister’s Suicide

On Tuesday 6th May 2003, everything changed. I was sitting in a year 8 maths class. We were learning how to balance equations. One of the office administrators came to the door, requesting I come to the front office. I thought this seemed a bit odd. Not entirely sure why this was necessary. But I willingly obliged.

Twenty minutes later, mum turned up at the front office. With the Senior Minister’s wife. That seemed odd too. Mum walked in. I stood up. She asked me to sit down. She sat down next to me. She placed her hand on my hand. “Martin, Barbara has died.”

That was the point when everything changed. It turned out that Barbara, my 16-year-old sister had taken her life that morning. At the level crossing just opposite Buttenshaw Park.

That was 21 years ago today. I decided it was time to write something. I’ve spent a few days trying to decide what. Normally I know exactly what I want to write, and the words just fall out of my fingers. This time, the words have come at a slow drip. Certainly not polished or refined. Pretty raw. But here you go. Three reflections on my sister’s suicide. 21 years later to the day (give or take three minutes).

1. Suicide Sucks

Suicide sucks. This is not a very profound revelation. I know that. But it’s true. It just sucks. Barbara’s suicide was—hands-down—the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. The shock. The grief. The confusion. The anger. The pain. It’s a lot for a pimply thirteen-year-old to take in. Let alone for a father, losing his little girl. Let alone for a mother, who has to be reminded that her only daughter is dead five days later on Mother’s Day.

And then you think about what that poor 16-year-old girl was going through. She was meant to get on a bus that day. A school bus. Because she was a child. In year 11. She was young. How does a child get that depressed?

Earlier that year we’d been on holidays with some family friends down in Batemans Bay. Barbara and I had been bickering as we always did. I remember having a whinge to one of these friends about Barbara. I remember my friend telling me that it’d probably be better when we’re in our 30s and we have kids. I’m now in my thirties. And I have kids. But they will never get to meet their Aunty Barbara. Not in this life anyway. They’ll meet her one day. She trusted in the Lord Jesus. But they won’t see her for a long time. Suicide sucks.

Those months and years after Barbara’s suicide—they were like walking through the valley of the shadow of death. On the outside, I probably looked like I was doing fine. I wasn’t taking drugs. I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t fooling around with girls. My marks were fine. My three-point shot was improving. Slightly. I was regular at church and youth group. But on the inside, I was intolerably miserable. I hate to say it, but I could empathise with my sister in a way that I wish I hadn’t been able to.

I remember at one point in year 8 reading Philippians 1:

21 For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. 22 If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labour for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! 23 I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far.

I remember reading verse 22 and thinking, “Good question: What shall I choose? I do not know”. I was genuinely conflicted. Because as I read this, I thought to myself, “He’s right. It would be better to depart and be with Christ. By far. Right now, living sucks.” Those are dark thoughts for a thirteen-year-old to think. I wondered if Barbara had read these verses. I wondered what she would have thought. It sucked. Suicide sucks.

I wish that, if she had read these verses, she’d read the next three as well:

24 But it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body. 25 Convinced of this, I know that I will remain, and I will continue with all of you for your progress and joy in the faith, 26 so that through my being with you again your boasting in Christ Jesus will abound on account of me. 

Paul understood that life after death was going to be better than life now.

But he also understood that there was a very important reason to stay: other people. I don’t think Barbara understood this. How could she possibly help other people if she was dead? How could she possibly help other people make progress in their faith if she was dead? How could she bring people joy if she was dead?

At many points along the way, I didn’t understand these things either. I managed to convince myself that if I was gone, nobody would care. It would take me a solid six years to work out the flaws in my logic.

2. The Shepherd is Good

But Jesus, the Good Shepherd: He is Good. There were a few things that got me through all of this. The grief, the confusion, the anger, the hurt, the disappointment. One of the things that got me through was Psalm 23.

The night Barbara died, my youth pastor came by. I asked him for something to read. He told me to read Psalm 23.

I read it.

It was good.

Here it is in the 1984 NIV translation, the Bible translation I used at the time:

1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. 2 He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, 3 he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 4 Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. 5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. 6 Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I’d come back to this passage again and again.

The LORD cares for me. He’s my shepherd. He provides for me. He guides me. He restores me. He comforts me. Even when I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He’s there for me.

Years later, I remember reading about how Jesus walked through the Kidron Valley on the way to the cross (John 18:1). I remember being curious about the Kidron Valley. So I looked it up. I realised that in 2 Samuel 15:23, David walked through the same Valley as he fled from Absolom, his son, who was trying to kill him.

And then it occurred to me—we have a better understanding of the comfort David talks about than David does. When David talks about his Valley, he doesn’t realise that the Shepherd who comforts him would one day walk through the very same Valley he walked through. David doesn’t realise that his Lord would go through the ultimate depths of suffering—death on a cross, bearing the punishment for the sins of humanity—so that he could “dwell in the house of the Lord forever”.

The Lord Jesus is able to comfort us through our Valley of the Shadow of Death precisely because he went through his Valley of the Shadow of Death. On the way to the cross.

Psalm 23. Great place to go. Well done youth Pastor. And on the topic of pastors, and therefore church…

3. I’m So, So Thankful For My Church

I’m so, so thankful to God for my church. God really used the saints in Springwood to get me and my family through the Valley.

And the best thing they did? They showed up.

Job’s friends often get a bad rap for their pastoral care skills. And they deserve a bad rap. They do a really bad job of caring for Job. But in Job 2, they nail it:

11 When Job’s three friends, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite, heard about all the troubles that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathise with him and comfort him. 12 When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognise him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. 13 Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was. 

Job’s friends showed up. They comforted him. (And best of all, they said nothing for a week.)

Showing up is 90 per cent of the job of supporting people in grief.

My church crushed it. They probably didn’t do it perfectly. But they were there.

When I got home from school that day, a dozen people from church were already there. They’d heard what had happened. They left work. They left uni. They left school. And they came straight to see my parents. And my brother. And me.

They bought us flowers. They brought us meals. They got us milk. They helped arrange the funeral. They checked in on me and my brother. They showed up.

The pastors showed up.

The pastors’ wives showed up.

The friends showed up.

The youth leaders showed up.

The youth kids showed up.

And they comforted us.

Unlike Job’s friends, my church family did say stuff. But on the most part, they said helpful stuff (unlike Job’s friends in Job 4–31).

Churches don’t always smash it like this. But in my case, they did.

Looking back, I’m really thankful for a couple of my thirteen-year-old mates. These guys had not taken a subject on Advanced Pastoral Care at a seminary or theological college. But they really, really helped me. I don’t think they ever read the Bible with me. I don’t remember if they ever prayed with me. But they hung out with me. Pretty much every week. Even though I was basically a two-legged Eeyore. They knew that life sucked for me. But they weren’t scared to show up.

The church thing—it was a big deal for me. In the months before Barbara’s death, I was at a point in my faith journey where I was realising I needed to cut the spiritual umbilical cord. I knew that I had to wean myself off my parents’ faith and start taking Jesus seriously on my own. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I wasn’t sure if God was real. I was genuinely considering packing it in.

I was looking to be intellectually satisfied. But it was my church community that kept me in the Jesus orbit. That’s how God held on to me. I’d become much more intellectually satisfied later. But I watched my church community look after me. I watched them look after my family. And I thought to myself, “If that’s what the church looks like and the church is Jesus’ body, I want to know—to really know—the One who is the Head of the church.“

In Sum

In sum, suicide sucks. The Shepherd is good. Really good. And I’m really, really thankful to God for his church.

I recognise that what I’ve written might be a bit unsettling or upsetting for some readers. If that is you, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me or to another trusted person to chat through how you’re going. If you are in immediate need of help, consider calling Lifeline (13 11 14) or Kids' Helpline on 1800 55 1800.