From the Pulpit: Listen to the quietest cries for a little help

PETER was dead. They found his body in the car the following morning. One end of the hose was attached to the car exhaust. The engine was still running. he died from carbon monoxide poisoning. Suicide.

They wrapped his heartache and despair in a sheet and took him away. A well-paid job and smart suit veiling agony. A newly bought BMW shrouding his journey to peace. His final solution - release.

The note read: "I cannot go through this any longer. I had hoped that you and the children would return, but now I realise it's all over.

"There seems to be no point in anything anymore. There is nothing to work for and nothing to come home to. I thought our dreams would come true, but now I realise they were just dreams.

"When the girls are older, let them know that I loved them very much."

Looking back, people could see a picture forming over recent months from the jigsaw of random actions. The borrowed items returned. Bin bags of old belongings taken away.

All business brought up to date. The desk cleared. A certain detachment. Comments like: "If I'm still here next year," or: "I don't have much need for it anymore."

They could now see the clues leading to the crime. But was there a criminal?

Samantha was found by her flatmate who thought she had overslept. She went into her room and shook her. But she would not wake up. An empty bottle fell on to the floor.

It's label accused her: "Thou shalt not exceed the dosage."

The ambulance arrived in 12 minutes but they knew it was all over. She took her own life. Once before she had tried to give it away, cutting her wrists, bartering for understanding.

Her professor described Sam as a promising student with a good grasp of economics. Old school chums reported her to be a popular girl with a fund of good friends.

And she was a wonderful daughter with so much to live for. Priceless. She paid dearly.

The boom and bust of her emotional life was too much to deal with. She left no note.

But people had noticed changes. She was less outgoing and carefree. Questioning life. Doubting herself. Searching for meaning she could not find. She rarely spoke of home. Relationships were tearful disasters.

She lost her appetite. She saw only one escape route from her narrowing, self-absorbed and painful world and she took it.

Was she wrong?

Suicide used to be an illegal act, condemned by State and Church. Taking away the most precious gift of life seemed unpardonable.

But condemnation saves no lives. It crumbles fragile self-esteem, confirming the world as hostile and unsympathetic.

Is there a better approach? What can I do for those for whom life is no longer a precious gift but a present pain?

Do I bear responsibility for someone else's life given up?

I sum it up in a prayer:

Dear loving God,

Give me the ears to hear the hidden cries of distress in the words people say.

Give me the eyes to see the hopelessness that hangs heavy.

Make me sensitive to the pains of others - their deep unmet needs - offering care without intrusion.

Help me to show those who are at the end of their world that there is a better way.

Help me to put people before schedules - listening before speaking - understanding before giving advice.

Guide me by your Holy Spirit.

And I ask that if I myself should feel life has lost its meaning that there will be someone there for me - to hear my unspoken cries and feel my hidden pain.'

Amen.

Copyright 1999 MGN LTD
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