On the concrete with Trinity

God sees us

When you’re in a behavioral center, psych ward, mental hospital—whatever you want to call it—the days start to blur. You can either sit inside and watch Young Sheldon or go outside to the basketball court. I chose the outdoors often.

So much so that I ended up sunburnt during my “stay” because I tried to perfect my ability to make a free throw. Quick tip, always put your left foot in front of your right and bounce the ball a couple of times for momentum. It makes a big difference.

One blurred afternoon—a Tuesday maybe—I noticed Trinity, a fellow patient, lying on the basketball court.

That looks pleasant, I remember thinking. The clouds were whispy that day. I shuffled my bare feet across the pavement to lay beside her.

When Trinity first told me her name, my mind immediately went to Holy Trinity. What a beautiful name. Trinity’s nose crinkled underneath her speckled glasses and her arms were constantly in the shirt of her scrubs from getting cold.

“Why don’t you ask for a sweater?” I’d ask her. This was after I realized loved ones could bring us clothes and wearing scrubs was starting to weigh on me.

“I’m on a one-to-one,” she replied, which, in mental hospital lingo, meant she was on suicide watch. Patients weren’t allowed certain items due to safety precautions. Some patients were on closer watch than others and Trinity was one of them. I’d never met anyone who openly admitted they were suicidal, much less was denied the right to wear a sweater.

The sky expanded above us. For a moment, we weren’t patients at a behavioral center. She wasn’t an attempted suicide and I wasn’t in psychosis. We were simply friends watching the clouds pass by, like two withered flowers blooming from the concrete.

I’ve never been one to openly share my hope of Jesus with someone I’d just met. Especially in such a brittle mental state. But on that day, lying beside her on the basketball court, I felt compelled to say something.

“You know Trinity,” I mused, “we’re just specks of dust on this space rock called Earth, but we’re both somehow here, this moment.”

Silence commenced. I continued.

“…It reminds me of Psalm 8 — the psalmist says this about God, ‘What is mankind that you should be mindful of him.’”

“Kind of like Horton Hears a Who?” she asked sincerely.

“Yes Trinity, exactly like Horton Hears a Who.”

In the following days, I intended to seek out Trinity. I didn’t know when I would leave, or when she would. I just knew I wanted to keep her company.

We’d eat fish and chips in the cafeteria. We’d have our vitals taken together. I constantly asked her to remind me what medication I was on and she’d politely remind me at 8 AM sharp before breakfast to take my meds so I don’t relapse. I had no idea how a behavioral center worked and she was willing to show me the ropes because she knew how deeply I wanted to get home to my baby.

At what point does a person feel so unseen, they believe death is the only remedy? And what compels that kind of person to reside in their misery while helping lift someone else out of theirs?

I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to do such a thing if I was in Trinity’s shoes. Yet she did it for me.

One evening, after the staff finished handing out graham crackers before med pass, I told her plainly, “You need to stick around.”

Maybe it’s because I was dosed up on psychiatric drugs or because I felt I had nothing to lose by saying it since I wasn’t sure when I’d see her again. Either way, I knew it had to be said.

She was bewildered. Her eyes lifted from their usual half-opened gaze and she sat silent for a while. The Holy Spirit moved in her. She saw a glimmer of her worth.

Could it be that sometimes, we need someone to intently look us in the face and tell us we’re valuable? I’m not sure whether a smiling face girted with truth could make a big difference in matters of someone choosing life over death, but perhaps it very well could.

It’s what my father-in-law did for me during my relapse psychosis episode. On the couch in our living room, I too, believed I was suicidal. Reality became a raging whirlpool and I was sinking deeper into the chaos.

I kept chanting, this is what suicide feels like. I still have darkness within me. There is no hope.

He read to me the parable of the lost sheep from Luke. You are the lost sheep he would tell me.

“But I’m not worth it,” I sobbed in desperation. He then cupped my face between his hands, looked at me with his blood-shot tired eyes, and said “Yes you are.”

It’s like he grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the turbulent waters. Never before had I felt so wildly wanted.

Perhaps Jesus, in His mercy, does this for us. When we feel lost in a crowd of ten thousand He grabs us by the face with his nailed hands and tells us we are seen. When we listen to the voices in our head questioning our worth, He uses the Word to flood our ears with the truth of our value. And when we feel all hope is lost and there’s no use in staying on this Earth much longer, He tells us we need to stick around.