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This is one of the most difficult 4th Day Letters I have ever written. I’ve tried to measure every word carefully. Today, I am writing about suicide. Suicide has felt far too close lately. Within a short span of time, I have experienced a cousin die by suicide, a friend bury a son from suicide, another friend lose a husband to suicide, a business acquaintance end his life, and I have had several quiet conversations through this ministry where someone admitted to me they are simply tired of fighting and are thinking about suicide. The pain that follows suicide is almost beyond language, and many of us are left wondering what to say to those grieving. It’s hard to know how to respond when someone begins to see escape as the only answer. Today’s message approaches this delicate topic with compassion and hope. Please read more.

Throughout history, many well-known people have taken their own lives. Names like Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Naomi Judd, Ernest Hemingway, and Vincent van Gogh remind us that fame, success, and admiration do not shield a person from despair. But the name that carries the greatest weight is not a celebrity. It’s the name of someone we know and love that matters most.

For those left behind, the pain is layered. There is grief, of course. But there is also confusion. There can be guilt. There can be anger. There can be endless replaying of the past, searching for signs we might have missed. We ask ourselves what we could have said differently, what we should have noticed, whether one more phone call might have changed the ending.

And when we sit across from someone who has lost a loved one to suicide, we often feel helpless. What can possibly be said? Scripture verses, offered too quickly, can feel like bandages placed over a wound that has not yet been cleaned. Theological explanations rarely comfort a shattered heart. Sometimes the most honest words are simply, “I am so sorry. I am here.”

I once read a newspaper article about a woman who lost her son to suicide, and I am still haunted by her words. She said, “It’s hard to heal the wounds you cannot see.” That mother would have done anything to help her son, if she had only known about his pain.

There is also another side to this silence. There are those who are not grieving someone else but are quietly carrying thoughts of their own. They may not speak them out loud. They may function well at work. They may sit in church. They may smile in public. But inside, they are exhausted. They are not necessarily looking for death. Often, they are looking for relief. They want the pain, the shame, the loneliness, or the relentless noise in their minds to stop.

This is delicate ground. It is not a time for judgment. Most Christian traditions recognize that a person who dies by suicide is usually in a fragile state of mind, not fully capable of clear and rational thought. The Church has grown in her understanding of the psychological weight that can press upon a soul. God alone sees the full picture. God alone judges. And the God revealed to us in Christ is not eager to condemn, but rich in mercy.

Bishop Barron address suicide in his Palm Sunday Homily. It is a message of hope.

That does not mean we treat suicide lightly. Life is sacred. Each human person is a gift. But when we speak of someone who has died this way, we do so with humility. We do not know the depth of their interior battle. We do not know the biochemical storms or traumatic wounds they were carrying. We entrust them to the One who formed them, who loved them into existence, and who understands suffering more than we ever will.

For those grieving, hope does not begin with explanations. It begins with presence. We stay. We listen. We allow tears. We resist the urge to tidy up the pain. Grief after suicide is rarely neat. It comes in waves. It can resurface years later without warning. Healing is not forgetting. It is learning to carry the love without being crushed by the questions.

And for anyone quietly considering escape, I want to say this gently and clearly: the pain you feel is real, but it is not beyond the reach of our Lord. The thoughts that whisper that you are a burden, that others would be better off without you, or that nothing will change, are not reliable narrators in a moment of pain. They feel convincing in the moment, but they are not the whole truth. There are people who would rather sit with you in your darkness than stand at your funeral wishing they had known.

If you are struggling in that way, please tell someone. Not everyone. Just someone. A friend. A pastor. A counselor. A hotline. Speaking the thought out loud weakens its power. Silence strengthens it.

As a community of believers, perhaps our calling is not to solve this mystery but to become safer places for honesty. Places where someone can admit they are not okay without fearing immediate correction or spiritual clichés. Places where we understand that mental anguish is not a sign of weak faith, but part of living in a broken world.

There are moments when we are truly at a loss for words. And perhaps that is where prayer begins, not with polished sentences, but with groans too deep for language. God is not offended by our questions. He is not startled by our anger. He is not overwhelmed by our grief.

In the face of unimaginable pain, we may not have the right words. But we can offer our presence. We can offer compassion. And we can entrust every wounded heart, including our own, to the mercy of God.

If you are struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, or if you simply feel overwhelmed and do not know where to turn, please reach out. In the United States, you can call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, at any hour of the day or night. You will be connected with someone trained to listen.

And if you just need someone to talk to (I can be a concerned listener, but I am NOT a trained counselor), you may call me at 864-203-8575 or contact me by clicking here. You do not have to carry this alone.

Heavenly Father, we do not always understand the depth of suffering around us, and at times we do not know what to say. When we encounter grief that feels unbearable, give us a quiet and compassionate presence. If we ever feel despair creeping into our own thoughts, remind us that we are not alone and that our lives have value beyond what we can see in the moment. Teach us to trust Your mercy more than our fears, and to believe that no darkness is beyond Your reach. Amen.

AMDG 

AMDG is a Latin abbreviation for “Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam,” which means “For the Greater Glory of God.”

 I always love to hear from you. You can email me by clicking here.

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Brian Pusateri

Brian is a Christian author and speaker. Brian, a lifelong Catholic, felt his life was forever changed when God spoke to his heart while attending an eight day silent Christian retreat in November of 2011. Soon after that retreat Brian founded 4th Day Letters and Broken Door Ministries. With the God inspired message of mercy and unconditional love that was placed on his heart during that retreat, Brian has been impacting others all over the country and around the world with his weekly letters, his talks, and his all day Christian retreats. In June of 2014, Brian’s life was again impacted in a very dramatic way when his eyesight suddenly became permanently impaired. The initial diagnosis was Multiple Scleroses (MS) but in December of 2019 the diagnosis was corrected to MOG antibody disease, a rare neurological disease. This health challenge has only served to draw Brian closer to God and bolster the importance of this timely yet ageless message.

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