Today I almost lost someone.

I am not going to tell you who. I am not going to tell you the details, because somebody else’s darkest hour is not mine to expose. But I am going to tell you what it did to me.

It frightened me. Not the kind of fear that comes from watching a sad movie or reading somebody else’s tragedy on Facebook. I mean the cold, real fear of suddenly realising that a human being you love can be standing right in front of you while their mind is taking them somewhere you cannot simply talk them out of.

And I think we need to talk about this. Seriously. Because mental illness is real.

A mental breakdown is real. Depression is real. Anxiety disorders are real. Psychosis is real. Trauma is real. Addiction is real. Suicidal thinking is real.

And sometimes an unhealthy mind can become a genuinely dangerous place to be. The World Health Organization estimates that around 1.1 billion people, nearly one in every seven human beings on earth, were living with a mental disorder in 2021. Anxiety and depressive disorders are among the most common. More than 720,000 people die by suicide every year, and for every person who dies, there are many more attempts. (World Health Organization)

And Namibia, we cannot pretend this belongs somewhere else. WHO reported that 542 suicides and 2,937 suicide attempts were recorded in Namibia during 2023/24. (WHO | Regional Office for Africa)

Read that again. Five hundred and forty two people. Not statistics. People. Somebody’s husband. Somebody’s wife. Somebody’s child. Somebody’s father. Somebody’s mother. Somebody’s colleague. Somebody’s pastor. Somebody’s friend.

And thousands more reached a place where the pain became so overwhelming that they attempted to end their lives.

So perhaps it is time we stop saying things like, “They just want attention.” Good. I hope that steps on somebody’s toes.

Because what if they do want attention? Give it to them.

What exactly are we saving our attention for? Their funeral?

What if the dramatic phone call is the last attempt somebody makes to communicate, “I cannot carry this anymore”?

What if “I’m tired” doesn’t mean they need a nap? What if “I can’t do this anymore” isn’t a figure of speech?

What if the person who has suddenly withdrawn isn’t rude? What if the person behaving completely unlike themselves isn’t looking for drama?

What if something is terribly wrong? We have got to stop waiting until somebody dies before we start believing they were sick.

And church, I am speaking to us too. We have sometimes handled mental illness terribly. There. I said it.

We know what to do with cancer. We organise meals. We pray. We visit. We send flowers. We drive people to chemotherapy. We understand medication. We tell people to rest.

But let somebody say, “My mind is not okay,” and suddenly everybody becomes a psychiatrist, theologian and deliverance minister. “Just pray more “Take authority over your thoughts.”“You need more faith.” “Stop speaking negatively.” “You have so much to be grateful for.”

“Christians shouldn’t be depressed.”Enough!!

Yes, I believe in prayer. I believe in deliverance. I believe in spiritual warfare. I believe that Jesus heals. I believe the enemy attacks minds.

But I also believe God gave us doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, counsellors, hospitals and medicine.

And those truths do not have to fight each other. If your blood pressure becomes dangerously high, I am going to pray for you while we get you medical attention.

If your blood sugar becomes dangerously low, I am not going to stand over you shouting Scripture while refusing you treatment.

So why, when somebody’s mind becomes dangerous to them, do we sometimes behave as though seeking psychiatric help represents spiritual failure?

It does not. Taking medication does not mean Jesus failed you. Seeing a psychologist does not mean you don’t trust God.

Being admitted to a psychiatric facility does not make you crazy. Telling somebody, “Please take me to the hospital because I am afraid of what I might do,” may be one of the bravest sentences they ever speak.

And yes, there are spiritual battles. But not everything is a demon. Sometimes somebody needs sleep.

Sometimes somebody needs trauma treatment. Sometimes somebody needs medication.

Sometimes somebody needs their medication reviewed. Sometimes somebody needs rehabilitation.

Sometimes somebody needs a psychiatrist. Sometimes somebody needs to be removed from an unsafe environment.

Sometimes somebody simply needs another human being to sit beside them and make sure they survive the night.

Discernment means knowing that God can work through all of those things too.

And before somebody tells me that people in the Bible never struggled like this, please actually read the Bible.

Elijah stood on Mount Carmel and witnessed the fire of God fall from heaven. Then, in 1 Kings 19, this mighty prophet collapsed under a tree and asked God to take his life.

Think about that.

A man can experience an extraordinary move of God and still become psychologically and physically overwhelmed.

And notice God’s first response. God did not humiliate Elijah.

He let him sleep. He fed him. He gave him water. He allowed him to rest.

Then He dealt with Elijah’s perspective, isolation and assignment.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do for a broken human being is feed them, let them sleep, keep them safe and stay nearby.

David knew darkness too “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” he writes in Psalm 42.

Jeremiah cursed the day he was born. Job, buried beneath catastrophic grief, said he wished he had never been born.

The Psalms are full of anguish, fear, despair, sleeplessness and cries from people who felt as though darkness had swallowed them.

The Bible does not sanitise human suffering. Why do we?

Perhaps because mental illness frightens us.

We like problems we can fix.

We like prayers with immediate endings.

We like testimonies where somebody says, “I struggled, Jesus touched me, and now everything is wonderful.”

But sometimes healing looks different. Sometimes healing is therapy every Tuesday.

Sometimes healing is taking medication every morning. Sometimes healing is six months sober.

Sometimes healing is learning to recognise a trigger. Sometimes healing is finally saying, “I am not safe alone tonight.” Sometimes healing is being admitted.

Sometimes healing is calling somebody at 02:00 and saying, “Please come.”

Sometimes healing is simply making it through today. And if that is you, I want to speak directly to you now.

If your mind has become frightening, please don’t stay alone with it.

If you are thinking about suicide, tell somebody. Not tomorrow. Not when you feel less embarrassed.

Now.

Say the words plainly:

“I am thinking about hurting myself.” “I don’t trust myself alone.”“I am scared of what I might do.” “I need help.”

Do not soften it so much that the person listening misses the emergency.

And to the person receiving that phone call: take them seriously.

Do not argue theology. Do not lecture. Do not threaten them with what their death would do to everybody else. Do not shame them. Stay. Listen.

Remove immediate dangers where you safely can. Get another trustworthy person involved. Get professional help.

Take them to an emergency department if necessary.

And if you believe somebody is in immediate danger of killing or seriously harming themselves, this is an emergency.

Treat it like one.

There are moments when prayer and professional intervention need to happen at the same time.

Pray in the car on the way to the hospital. Pray in the waiting room. Pray while the psychiatrist assesses them.

Pray while they swallow the medication. Pray while you sit beside their bed.

But please, take them.

Faith is not pretending an emergency isn’t happening.

And to the person whose mind is telling them tonight that everybody would be better without them, please understand something.

Your mind can lie to you when it is sick. The thought feels real. The pain is real. The exhaustion is real.

But the conclusion that your life needs to end does not become true simply because your hurting mind is screaming it loudly.

Do not make a permanent decision from inside an acute storm.

Borrow somebody else’s hope tonight.

If you cannot believe tomorrow will be better, let somebody else believe it for you.

If you cannot pray, let somebody pray beside you.

If you cannot explain what is happening, say, “Something is wrong.”

If you cannot walk yourself into the hospital, let somebody carry your bag and walk beside you.

You do not have to understand everything tonight. You just have to stay. Stay for tonight. Stay for morning. Stay long enough for the medication to work.

Stay long enough for the panic to pass. Stay long enough for somebody trained to help you understand what is happening.

Stay long enough to discover that the voice telling you there was no way out was wrong.

And church, perhaps this is where our theology needs hands and feet.

When Jesus encountered suffering people, He moved toward them.

So should we. We should become the safest people in the room to tell the truth to.

Imagine a church where somebody could say, “Pastor, I am suicidal,” without fearing gossip.

Imagine a family where a teenager could say, “Mom, something is happening in my head and I’m scared,” without being told they are being dramatic.

Imagine workplaces where mental illness isn’t whispered about as weakness.

Imagine friendships where “How are you?” actually means, “Tell me the truth. I can handle the truth.”

Because sometimes saving a life begins with creating a place where somebody is allowed to admit that they are losing their grip on it.

Today frightened me.

But perhaps I needed to be frightened.

Perhaps some of us need to understand just how thin the line can become between “they’re having a bad day” and “we are fighting for a life.”

So check on your people. Check on the strong one. Check on the funny one. Check on the pastor. Check on the father carrying everybody financially.

Check on the mother who never stops. Check on the teenager who suddenly went quiet. Check on the friend who disappeared.

And when somebody tells you their mind is not okay, believe them. You do not have to diagnose them. You do not have to fix them.

You do not need the perfect Scripture. You may simply need to say:

“I’m here. You are not staying alone in this. We are getting help.”

And then mean it. Mental illness is real. Treatment is real. Recovery is real.

And God is still God in the psychiatrist’s office. He is still God in the counselling room.

He is still God beside the hospital bed.

He is still God when the prescription is filled.

He is still God when healing takes longer than we hoped.

And He is still God at 03:17 in the morning when all somebody can manage to pray is:

“Jesus, please keep me here.”

If that is your prayer tonight, then let that be enough for tonight.

Stay. Tell someone. Get help.

Let us carry hope for you until you can carry it again.

Your life is worth interrupting somebody’s night for.

Love

V. L