Today I read another story, tragic and sad,
A young pastor lost the battle he had.
Mental illness took him, now he’s in glory,
With You, Lord Jesus—an unfinished story.
It seemed he had all that a man could desire,
A wife who loved him, two sons to inspire.
A megachurch he faithfully led,
Two hundred thousand on Facebook fed.
His name would appear at the top of the search,
He and his wife had started a church.
A chat line of hope for the hurting inside,
He was faithful to serve—till the day he died.
When the news breaks, hearts shatter in pain,
Questions arise, though answers seem vain.
We mourn with confusion, with anger, with grief,
But nothing we’re told can bring us relief.
Some voices claim he is lost in hell,
But they’ve never known the torment so well.
If they had walked in this shadowed disease,
They’d know that hell feels closer than peace.
I think of the family he left behind,
A church that adored him, a love intertwined.
A ministry shining with hope to impart,
Now grieving the loss of a shepherd’s heart.
Compared to his life, mine looks so small,
No wife, no children, no platform at all.
Just a tiny ministry, a name unknown,
Yet the battle he fought is the same as my own.
For I’ve faced nights when I wanted to die,
When tears ran dry and prayers felt like lies.
I begged my family to let me be,
As darkness whispered its claim on me.
When my will to live was slipping away,
Satan rejoiced—he had won that day.
But You stepped in, turned the fight around,
Lifted me up from the battleground.
Still the question burns, year after year:
Why am I living? Why am I here?
Why not let illness finish its claim,
As cancer or sickness steals others the same?
Is it because I am stronger? No.
More faithful, more spiritual? Still no.
Do I have greater plans in sight?
I don’t think so—not by my might.
The answer comes softly, steady and true:
My life is not mine, it belongs to You.
Though fragile, broken, weary of strife,
You’re not yet done with my tiny life.
