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Ruth Daniel with her daughter Mandy. Courtesy of Ruth Daniel

My husband and I were married in January 1980 and divorced ten years later. Our children Amanda (Mandy), 6, and Andrew, 4, did not understand our problem at the time, and I couldn't explain it. I didn't understand it myself. I thought we had a pretty good marriage, and my husband's unfaithfulness took me by surprise.

When my husband left, I had no money, no job skills, no place to live, no reliable transportation, and no way to support my small family. I moved in with my parents and went to college. I felt so alone and overwhelmed by the responsibility of being a single parent.

Our children felt the pressure as well. Mandy started running away at age 12. Sometimes she would be gone for days. She was arrested for vandalism, breaking into homes, and stealing cars. She began experimenting with drugs, sex, and self-mutilation.

The next year was a blur of drug rehab, hospitals, and group homes. Mandy ran at every chance. Mandy was in a group home again in January 1995 when she began talking of death and writing poems about dying. On January 9, just a few days before her 14th birthday, she took her own life.

	I could see no hope, no reason to ever smile again. There was no way to bring my precious daughter back.

I was overcome with pain, guilt, shame and confusion. I sank into a bottomless depression. Over the next two months I often thought about committing suicide myself. I could see no hope, no reason to ever smile again. There was no way to bring my precious daughter back. What kept me from following her was thinking of my family. I knew firsthand what this selfish act would do to my mother and father. I also thought about my son and how he needed me more than ever.

Drawing close to God
Anger was an issue at times, but I didn't direct it at God. My dad used to say, "God will never make us be good. He doesn't force obedience upon us; we have a choice." Mandy had a free will and she chose to kill herself. I was more angry with the people who could have made a difference in her life but didn't. In those cases I chose not to let anger fester into bitterness. I knew bitterness as a self-inflicted wound that would hurt only me. I'd learned that painful lesson when my husband left.

Since Mandy was in a state-run home when she killed herself, someone suggested I sue the program. I never considered it. These people had done all they could, and after Mandy's death they were so supportive. Making scapegoats of those who tried to save my daughter just didn't make sense.

What did make sense, even in the darkest hours, was holding on to God. I was like an anguished child clinging to her father's leg. Without his presence I would have gone insane. Sometimes I could feel his arms around me, hugging me close. He spoke words of comfort to my heart, and I came to appreciate how much he cared about my pain. I hung onto him in the way Job did when he wrote, "Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him" (Job 13:15).

I also had literal arms and shoulders to lean on. My family helped me bury my child and grieve. My parents have always been there for me with their prayers and practical help. My sisters are my best friends; they have walked with me through all the hard times. We have cried and laughed and remembered Mandy together at Christmas and birthdays and other special occasions.

In the dark days after losing Mandy, I needed time alone to grapple with my feelings. When I was with people, I kept tighter control on myself. I didn't want them to feel sorry for me, so I tried not to show my pain around them. I soon found, however, that too much time alone wasn't good. I needed the support and encouragement of others. I needed someone to talk to about what was going on inside. Among others, my mom filled this special role. She listened and shared her own experiences when they were appropriate. She didn't lecture me on how to grieve. She listened and prayed and loved.

Eight months into my grief I took a position with His Mansion, an organization that works with troubled youth. This involved a cross-country move and living on site for the next year. My time there was healing because it kept me busy and put me around some very good people. It gave me an outlet to do something for others while still giving me time to be by myself when I needed to be.

I cried every day for two years after burying my daughter—not all day, but every day. Slowly I reached a point where I could take the whole ordeal, wrap it in a sacred bundle and put it in a safe place inside me. That way it was no longer like an elephant in the living room, dominating everything. I still loved Mandy, and always would, but I couldn't get on with life while she was my overriding focus.

God sings minor notes too
Gradually I've come to accept this somber chapter as part of my story. Whenever I revisit it, as I've done for this article, the pain is still as fresh and searing as on the day Mandy died. But now I can leave it in the past, turn the page and go on.

For others who have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death because of a loved one's death or suicide, I can offer some thoughts as a survivor.

Take one day at a time. If that seems too hard, take it moment by moment. Open yourself to life and to the future. Look around you. Choose to find something beautiful in every day—a flower, a song, a friend. Don't ignore the past, but don't dwell there. Keep moving. Turn the page.

Give yourself permission to grieve. Be patient; the healing process takes time. Don't let others tell you how long it should take or how you should feel. When someone says it's time to turn off your pain and get on with life, it only makes matters worse.

Take time to be alone, but don't shut people out. Grieving is both a solitary and a shared process. Find family members or friends you can trust and open up to them. Share what's going on inside, even your darkest emotions. Let them be conduits of grace to carry away the hurt and bring healing.

I had a Michael Card song played at Mandy's funeral. She had met Michael a few months before she died and the two really hit it off. In the liner notes to his song "The Edge," Michael wrote:

Poems have their darker rhythms. Stories sometimes make us wait for happy endings. So also the Father sometimes sings to us in minor keys. Those who refuse to listen to the deep meaning behind the song of darker days are sometimes driven to the edge. I have been there too. Even from that dark point of view, by grace we are able to see His love for us and find strength to move back from the edge and into waiting Arms.

The chorus says, "I promise I will always leave the darkness for the light. I swear by all that's holy I will not give up the fight." Coming back from the edge of despair and going on with the poem of life is difficult, but all things are possible with God's grace.

Ruth Daniel and Mike Hamel, her brother-in-law and a freelance writer, both live in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

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