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After two sleepless nights, I knew something was terribly wrong. I never have trouble falling asleep, but for two nights I felt consumed by fear and dread. Frightening voices screamed in my head, repeating over and over, "Into the whirlwind! Into the whirlwind!" At 28 years old, I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I asked my father and younger brother to drive me to the emergency room because I thought I was going to die.

Three hours later, after the doctors asked a lot of questions and drew what seemed like a pint of blood, I was sent home with the cryptic remark—"Patient has no thoughts of harming himself."

	In the darkest moments, a quiet voice inside me said, "You're going to be all right."

The next few days, the insomnia tormented me. My mind seemed to be falling apart. I needed answers. Going to the offices of The Philadelphia Inquirer where I worked part-time as a freelance journalist, I typed all the words that described my condition—"nervous," "anxiety," "insomnia," "panic," "sadness"—into my computer's database. The printer spit out article after article about clinical depression.

How could this be happening? I was a Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Rutgers University, with scholarships, high honors, and a perfect 4.0 in my English major. But my intelligence had its dark side. Starting in high school, I had perfected the art of forging report cards for my friends and myself. I forged grades and started making fake IDs to be popular and pocket a little extra money.

After graduation, I used my creative writing skills to concoct an impressive (and basically phony) résumé. It failed to open any doors for me except one. Even though an editor at The Philadephia Inquirer suspected my credentials were embellished, he gave me a chance to prove myself as a freelance writer.

Now my world was crashing in.

A casual friend recommended a therapist, and my fiancee helped me find a medical doctor, who prescribed anti-depressants. Still convinced I could beat my "thinking problem," I pored over the best self-help books. Little did I know then how God—whose existence I denied—was already working to rescue and redeem me.

Digging to the root
I grew up in a problem-filled home. In my therapy sessions, we talked a lot about my family. I lived at home, and my father and I rarely saw eye to eye. Every few years his gambling problem (which he has never owned up to) wreaked havoc on our family.

When I was 11 years old my family moved from Baltimore to Philadelphia with little more than a few minutes notice. My dad was in trouble; the bookies wanted his money or his life. Moving temporarily "solved" the problem. In a few years, he was dodging trouble again, always managing to borrow money or talk his way out it. His habits slowly influenced me.

Like him, I enjoyed card games, sports betting, and the casino. I was too young to get in, but my fake ID helped. My dad was a high-stakes blackjack player; I stuck to the slot machines.

My father and I regularly indulged in a toxic dance of anger and deceit. He was always thinking of wild business schemes. I had my own schemes.

When I was 14, I formed a rock band with aspirations to be as popular as the Beatles. By the time I finished high school, things looked promising.

I left the band briefly in college, but rejoined just before graduation. That's when I hatched my plan. With little regular income other than waiting tables, I managed to accumulate $30,000 in credit card lines by accepting every "pre-approved" offer sent to me.

This could be the break the band needs, I thought, as I planned to sink all the money into recording and promoting an album and buying fancier guitar gear for myself. My father had a different idea; he convinced me to give him half to invest in a stock market scheme.

Wary at first, I let my guard down after we made money the first several times out. But when one of the stocks took an unexpected nose dive, my father scrambled to recoup our losses. Taking what money was left, he gambled it away. I didn't realize the money was gone until months later, when my credit card bills were overdue. My father and I got into a screaming match.

That wasn't all. A high school friend of mine had invested his parents' savings into the scheme on my dad's urging. He retaliated by suing both of my parents.

The lawsuit blindsided my mom. My former friend had been like another son to her. Mom had no part in my dad's stock market ploys, only vaguely aware that he was investing money. For months, my father hid the lawsuit from her. Not until representatives of the U.S. Marshal's office showed up at our house was she aware of what happened.

Our family was deeply divided. In my older brother's eyes, I was selfish. Instead of sympathizing with me, he scolded, "Be thankful you have a roof over your head." What right did I have to be upset?

My heart twisted in anger toward just about everyone. I felt like a poison sack had burst inside me.

I couldn't turn to my band for solace. They had seen the handwriting on the wall and decided to fend for themselves—leaving me with $15,000 in debt on my credit cards.

With everything plummeting out of control, marriage seemed out of the question. I broke up with my fiancee. Our mutual friends took one look at me, decided I'd "gone crazy," and sided with her. Never had I felt so deserted, so tempted to take my own life.

Yet in the darkest moments, a quiet voice inside me said, "You're going to be all right." I dismissed it. Then Dave arrived.

Truth in my darkest hour
Dave and I met on the job. We were both passionate about music and writing. To me, Dave always seemed so laid back—except when it came to talking about his faith. Dave was a Christian and I was into New Age.

One night, Dave "innocently" asked me to explain New Age to him.

"It centers around the idea that you are your own God," I replied.

His reaction caught me off-guard. "So that allows you to pretty much rationalize everything you do, good or evil?"

For the entire night, the debate gained momentum. I would have none of Dave's Christianity. Still, Dave got the last word in. "Lou, the truth is the truth," he said.

"Of course," I ended quickly. Little did I know, that statement would stick with me.

We didn't discuss matters of faith in those fragile days after my breakdown. Instead, Dave made it clear that I could escape to his apartment if I needed a respite from the turmoil at my parents' house. We took long walks in the woods and stayed up late listening to music. Dave would listen to me babble, without making any judgments. I had never felt so loved and accepted. But I was also dumbfounded.

"How can you put up with me when no one else wants anything to do with me?" I asked Dave one evening. "You're there, all the time. You listen to me. How do you do it?"

Dave began talking about Jesus, God's son who became human. Deserted by his closest friends ("like me," I thought), Jesus endured unbearable suffering (something else I could relate to).

The more Dave explained, the more it made sense: Jesus could identify with all I was going through. More important, I faced the truth: Jesus could save and heal me. But I still needed convincing.

I dug deep into my two self-help books—M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled and Joan Borysenko's Minding the Body, Mending the Mind. To my astonishment, both had extensive chapters about God's grace!

God knew I needed to "think" my way into accepting him. There were a few more surprises. Both my therapist and the casual friend who had referred me were devoted Christians who had been praying for me.

When Dave invited me to a Billy Graham crusade at Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium, I was ready to embrace Jesus as my Savior and friend. As I walked with the crowds across the field, I offered up my life to God.

Multiplied blessings
I moved out of my parents' house a few weeks later explaining that "it was time for me to grow up." Setting the music aside, I worked hard on journalism, lived modestly, and was debt-free in a year-and-a-half. I waited for the lawsuit to rear its ugly head, but with nearly every casino in Atlantic City holding a lien on my father's house, I think my former friend knew it was hopeless and gave up. In the meantime, my father declared bankruptcy.

Dave discipled me, helping me understand that true friendship stems from the unfailing love Christ has for us. It revolutionized how I related to everyone.

Finally, I was able to put my past behind me. Relocating to Chicago, I've been thriving in a journalistic career with the Chicago Tribune, I'm active in church with my wife whom I met there, and I'm writing and performing music again.

As I grow in my faith, I see other blessings. Thankfully, my younger brother has become a Christian, but my older brother and I are still working on patching our rift. As for my father, a visit three years ago demonstrated how far we've come.

We were sitting up late together watching TV. Suddenly, Dad put down the remote and stood up with his arms extended toward me.

Hugging and crying together, I could barely make out his words. "I know I've hurt you so much," he said. "I drove you away from home."

"That's not true," I said.

It was time to start the healing with a gift my Heavenly Father had extended to me, and that I now wanted to give to my dad.

"Don't worry, Dad," I said, holding him in my arms. "I forgive you."

He hasn't yet made a commitment to Christ. But like Dave had done for me, I listened to Dad pour out his guilt and shame.

More recently, my father's been diagnosed with prostate cancer. I've been praying for him every day, gently stepping up my appeals that he turn his burden over to Jesus.

"What do you have to lose?" I've asked him. "Look how it changed me!" Even though he won't pray for himself, Dad always asks if I'm praying for him.

My prayer is for God's healing to take place—whether it's his will to remove dad's cancer or not. For me, repairing our broken family bonds would be just as miraculous. No matter what, I know firsthand that miracles happen.

A Christian Reader original article.

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