How to Make a Hope Kit

What are my reasons for living?

This is one of the key questions of suicide prevention. In such moments when the dark becomes too deep to bear and pain becomes suffocating, what we need is not just reasons not to die but even more so, reasons to continue to live. What reasons do I have to continue to choose life, to draw breath into my lungs one more time, in spite of the reality that life may bring difficulty and pain?

A hope kit is tool designed to help answer these questions. It is a collection of items and reminders of why life is valuable and worth living. It serves to remind you of reasons for hope, even when that hope may feel hard to grasp.

In my own experience, this is a tool best made in a preventative capacity, and not in the middle of a mental health crisis. If you or a loved one are in crisis and are having thoughts of suicide, please reach out for help. You can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (800-273-8255) at any time, or call your local mental health crisis line or 911.

How to Make a Hope Kit

Get a box (or any other container) to hold the objects in your hope kit. You can decorate it as much or as little as you’d like. Some people really enjoy turning this into an art project to make the box itself into a thing of beauty.

Gather or create items to place in your box that remind you of hope and of your reasons for living. These may be things that give you hope in this moment or that have brought you hope in the past. Some ideas include:

• Photos of family, friends, and loved ones

• Photos or representative objects of special experiences or moments you have had or hope to have. This may include vacations, places you’d like to travel, activities, particularly fond memories, etc.

• Letters, notes, or printed emails that have been meaningful and encouraging to you

• Bible verses or inspirational quotes

• Printed song lyrics or poetry or even a recording of music you find hopeful or soothing

• Articles, books, or magazines you find meaningful or inspiring

• Jokes that make you laugh

• Art you have created or that someone else has made for you

• Significant objects

• Any other items that will offer you reasons for living

Additional items you may want to include. If you’re in a good and hopeful place as you assemble your hope kit, it may be worthwhile to write a letter to your future self about your reasons for living and ways you’ve found to cope in the past. If you’re working with a therapist and have a crisis or safety plan, it may be valuable to keep a copy in your box. Also, you can include things that would serve as a distraction to suicidal or distressing thoughts, even something as simple as a Sudoku or crossword puzzle, if you enjoy such activities.

Keep your hope kit easily accessible, and look through it when you need a reminder of why your life is precious. Because it is.

A few important notes:

Though it is a helpful tool, a hope kit is not a replacement for professional mental health care. If you or a loved one are struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, please reach out for professional help using one of the crisis lines above, or through your doctor.

I love the physicality of creating a tangible hope kit, but apps now exist to create one virtually to have on your phone. I’ve not used them personally, but you should give it a try if that would better meet your needs. The two I know of are called “Virtual Hope Box” and “Hope Box.”

Hope Is An Audacious Thing

Over the last several months, I’ve been meditating a lot on the nature of hope. It may seem ironic, really, that a book about depression would spark such thoughts, but as I’ve told and retold the stories of the Companions, I can’t help but circle back to what kept them alive in the dark.

If, in the midst of our suffering, we had nothing to turn to that was bigger than our pain, no reason to expect an end to our agony, no whispers of the possibility of redemption, we would have much reason to be pitied. In a world like the one we live in, where pandemics strike and justice goes unmet, I need hope to be more than wishful thinking or a spiritualized cliché. I need a hope that’s deep and robust enough to withstand the darkness.

I’ve returned often to a story I heard too late to include in the book. Martin Luther, the great Protestant Reformer, struggled with depression on and off throughout his life. One of those seasons came after his teenage daughter, Magdalena, died in his arms. It’s a heartrending scene. As you can imagine, Martin and his wife Katie were devastated. But as the carpenters were nailing the lid on Magdalena’s coffin, Luther yelled, “Hammer away! On doomsday, she’ll rise again!”

Every time, it sends chills down my spine.

When I hear a story like that, I can’t help but think of hope as an audacious thing. It plants itself in the darkness and defiantly insists that, in the end, light will have the last say. Hope stands in the midst of burned out ruins and refuses to accept a blackened shell as the end of the story. And it can stand by a graveside, as the hammers still ring, telling death not to be proud.

Such hope does not remove our pain. (And it does not cure depression.) But it does prove strong enough to sustain us in the midst of the greatest of suffering. Hope gives us the strength to stare the darkness in the face—and still defiantly insist, “This is not the end.”

There will come a day when sorrow and suffering and sin will forever be undone. A dawn will rise where there is no more death, no more tears, no more sickness. There will come a day when our joy will be complete, a day when nothing will take that joy away from us.

Hope reminds us of this Day. Hope sends roots down deep, to keep us tethered when we are battered by life’s storms. Hope gives us the courage to keep breathing, to keep loving, to keep seeking joy where it may be found, even in the valley of the shadow.

My friends, I know so many of you are bearing your own weight of grief. It may be the death of a loved one or an unresolved illness. It may be chronic depression or anxiety. It may be unemployment or disconnection from your loved ones. There is a fair share of suffering.

But yet there is hope. Defiant and audacious hope. And that hope will not disappoint us.

Advent Hope for a Weary World

A few weeks ago, Companions in the Darkness released into the world. I suppose some might say it’s strange to talk about depression during such a season of the year, one purportedly filled with “comfort and joy.” But I beg to differ.

This is not only because many people struggle with depression during the holiday season. It is also not only because of the weariness many of us are feeling after all 2020 has brought our way. Though both of these things are true.

No, for me, it is the season of Advent that makes space for conversations about depression during this time of the year. Advent gives me the space to be honest about the dark and to sit with it for a while. Advent invites me to be honest about the pain and the brokenness I see and taste in the world. For it was into this darkness and because of this brokenness our Savior came—and will come again. Advent offers me hope that as dark as the night may become, it will never be the end of the story.

I wrote about this hope earlier this week over at the Vere Institute:

“If all we had were the questions, weariness, or pain, we would be worthy of pity indeed and dwelling on such things would truly be depressing. But here in the valley, here in the dark of winter, we are met with a spark of hope. We sing of it: "A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices." Why? Because the valley—and all it brings—is not the end of the story for disciples of Jesus.

“In this Advent season we are reminded of the hope that offers to sustain us no matter what valleys we may be asked to walk—or how long they may endure. We are reminded of a God who stooped low to enter our world for our redemption. Of a Savior who took on flesh and all its pain and became one of us. We are reminded that Christ joined humanity in the mundane of every day life, of work and play, of dirty diapers and sawdust, of celebrations and funerals. He stepped into it all and in everything invited His disciples then, and us today, to follow Him.

“But in the season of Advent we also remember Christ's second coming, the one His people wait for today, when He will restore all things. We find hope as we long for this yet-to-come advent, when all of creation will be remade and there will be no more tears or sorrow or pain.

“This promise of the Kingdom fully come offers us hope as we walk through the valley today. And even more—it offers us a pathway to find joy in the midst of suffering, to stare into the darkness yet not be overcome. We can walk through the valley—and speak honestly of it—and yet not fear. We can walk with another through the valley and not be dismayed. For even the deepest of valleys can become a sacred place when we are joined by Immanuel—God with us.”

If you are finding joy in this season, thanks be to God—may you rest in the joy of His presence. And if you are weary, as so many of us are, may you know the quiet thrill of hope offered to weary souls—for our God keeps company with you there.

A blessed Advent, and a Merry Christmas to you all.

My 'Long Obedience' in Depression

In Companions in the Darkness (which releases in about a month), I share a bit of my own story with depression along with the tales from church history. When you open up your own life like that in a public space, it invites questions. What was that like for you? How did your community respond? Did they contribute to your mental health struggles? What could they have done differently? In private conversation, I’m happy to share frankly about some of these things. In public, I feel a tension between honesty (because we are inclined to cover up too much about mental health as it is) and not wanting my words to be twisted to bash or overly-harshly criticize spaces and communities of which I’ve been a part. I just don’t find that to be beneficial at this point.

In the book, a lot of what I share about my own depression is in the past tense. This is in large part because the deepest and most debilitating seasons of depression in my life are, at least at this moment, in the past. But I’ve realized as I’m involved in interviews and writing opportunities about the book, that it would be disingenuous to paint a story that casts depression as only a part of my history. Sure, I don’t struggle to get out of bed most days. I don’t want my life to end. I can find enjoyment and delight in people and places and moments. I am not under depression’s smothering grip. But this doesn’t mean it’s not a part of my life.

I have found it helpful to think of depression and other mental health struggles like I do other physical illnesses and conditions. Let’s compare it to something like heart disease or diabetes or cancer (or take your pick of any other host of ailments or chronic illnesses). Some people, by virtue of genetics and pure luck, can waltz through life giving no concern about some of these conditions.

Most of us, though, know we have a proclivity to one of these problems. Maybe we have a family history of high cholesterol. Maybe we’ve had cancer in the past. Whatever the case, we know it’s something we need to keep an eye on. It may not be a fully present, crisis-mode problem all the time (Lord, willing). But we know we need to pay attention to our lifestyle in order to support our good health. We know we need to keep an eye out for warning signs that something might be wrong. And then sometimes, even with the best of intentions and efforts, our bodies react outside of our control and we find ourselves in dire need of help.

I know I have a proclivity toward depression. I’ve seen it in my life in the past. I’ve seen its darkness build. I’ve felt its weight. And I know that there is a decent chance I may experience it in a deeper form again. But in this middle land, where I’m fairly stable and functioning well, not in need of medication, and able to enjoy life—I know it’s still there in the background. Sometimes I forget it’s there. It’s like a hazy memory, a bad dream. Other times, particularly when life is painful and emotional stress is high, I can sense its shadow, can feel its icy talons trying to tighten their grip. Depression may not be fully or debilitatingly present, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

As with other health problems, I know there is some level of powerlessness I have in ensuring I never endure depression in its fullness again. Our bodies break down. So do our brains. And to some extent, there’s no way to fully protect ourselves from this. We are human after all.

But there is a lot I can do to do my part to stay healthy, to care for myself, to give my brain and my body the best chance they’ve got. Part of my own recovery has been learning some of these tools and strategies. I know I need to get good rest. I know I need to reach out to friends, even if it’s remotely, to talk and laugh and process. I know I need physical things to pull me out of my own head and use my body, whether that be gardening or walking or even simply sitting outside in the sun. I know I need to build delight into my life, even in the smallest forms. I know I need to care for my soul—to find and embrace spaces and practices that bring spiritual refreshment and encouragement. I know I need to find ways to laugh, even when (especially when) life mostly makes me want to cry. I do these things not only because they’re generally good practices. I do them also because I know that depression is still there, in wait for when I become vulnerable.

Eugene Peterson famously referred to discipleship as a “long obedience in the same direction.” I think this is also an apt phrase to describe life with (or a proclivity toward) mental illness. It’s a “long obedience” of self-care to do your part in prevention. It’s a “long obedience” of doing the work in therapy. It’s a “long obedience” of taking your meds every day. It’s a “long obedience” of choosing life each day, no matter how messy or difficult. I move in the right direction as I care for myself, and pay attention to my own vulnerability—and I move in the right direction when I admit when I need help and seek out whatever that help may be.

The reality of depression is a part of my long obedience. It’s something in my past, yes, but it’s also something in my present. And God will be no less faithful (and no less pleased with me) if it is part of my future.

What Not To Say to Someone Who Is Suffering

We’re living through a season in which many of us are experiencing pain. It may be the the pain of physical illness, conflict, grief, uncertainty, job loss, ongoing racism, mental illness, or any other host of problems. These days, the list feels far too long. If you are feeling the weight of that pain today - you aren’t alone.

I’ve found that though pain is a universal human experience, most of us are innately bad at knowing how to handle it. We tend to be particularly bad when it comes to our words. In spite of any good intentions, we can do a great deal of harm in how we response when someone shares their pain.

Because it is such a pressing need, I’m reposting this guide from a few years ago about what not to say to someone who is suffering. May it help us all be better helpers and comforters during this season.

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When someone shares a painful circumstance with us, our response is an opportunity to minister comfort and love. We can incarnate the love of God to people in pain. This is usually our intention—to be helpful and comforting. Our intentions are good. But we often fall (far) short of them. Our words, in spite of our best intentions, can easily offer only cold comfort and further wounding. 

I know I’ve had moments walking away from a struggling friend thinking, “I shouldn’t have said that.” I’m sure you can relate. We must be aware of our words, aware that our gut-instinct response might not be the most helpful. 

I’ve compiled a list of common bad responses to people in pain. I’m sure we could all add a couple more from our own experiences (or missteps). I encourage you to read through them carefully and take note of the ones you’re prone to. Take some time to reflect on why you respond this way—is it your own fear? Your discomfort with pain? Then consider how you could respond differently the next time you’re in a similar situation.

Don’t…

• Speak for God in explaining why He’s allowing this pain. (Ex: God must have needed your (dead) loved one more than you did.) - Attempting to provide answers to the “why?” question of pain typically falls short both emotionally and theologically—and you cannot know for certain why God allows things to happen. Attempts at explaining the pain also often bring a tone of criticism or blame.
  
  
  

• Suggest an enhanced spirituality is the key to alleviating pain (Just pray more; Just have more faith; etc.). - Pain is a part of the human condition in a fallen world. Our spirituality does not provide a solution to every pain or struggle. We follow a crucified Lord, and our lives sometimes lead us through pain. We do not follow a gospel of “emotional prosperity” (Gay Hubbard’s term) but a promise of strength in weakness and joy in the midst of pain. These statements (just pray more, etc.) also heap on blame, as if the experience of pain is the person’s fault by lack of piety.
  
  
  

• Say “I completely understand.” - Even with the utmost empathy, there is no way we can completely understand. Each person experiences painful circumstances in different ways. And, usually, when we say this, we do not actually even begin to understand.
  
  
  

• Tell stories about your “same” experience or that of someone you know. - I don’t need to hear about your aunt’s-second-cousin’s-best-friend’s experience with cancer. Although well-intentioned, these stories can easily lead to increased fear and intensified pain. Reporting your own experience typically becomes an act of talking-about, not sharing-in someone’s pain.
  
  
  

• Catastrophize their painful experience, asking for morbid repetitions of their circumstances and emotions, or tell them how what they’re experiencing is the worst thing ever. - Any questioning and prodding that comes with little vision for healing, growth, and redemption leads to an increased sense of hopelessness, intensifying of pain, and increased fear. Exaggeration is not helpful.
  
  
  

• Try to solve the “problem.” - Responding to another’s pain as a problem with a simple solution is never helpful. Pain is much more complex than this. There is a time and place for problem solving during some painful circumstances, but do not volunteer yourself to be the fixer. This includes things like thrusting books into people’s hands, telling them the exact diet/medical treatment plan they must pursue, forcing them to attend groups/events they might not be ready for, etc. Do not engage in problem-solving or “fixing” attempts unless you have been specifically asked for these services.
  
  
  

• Start a statement with “At least…” - These statements almost universally undermine the person’s experience and implicitly suggests they shouldn’t be feeling the way they do. Catch yourself when you hear your response starting with these little words.
  
  
  

• Attempt to be a mind reader. - Ask good questions to understand what they’re feeling and experiencing. Don’t assume you know.
  
  
  

• Say “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” - I do not see this promised in Scripture. (This statement seems to be a misapplication of 1 Cor. 10:13, which is talking not about pain, but about God providing ways out in temptation.) God will sometimes give us more than we can handle—we will be weak and, humanly speaking, falling apart. But He has promised that His strength is perfect in our weakness. We’re weak. He’s strong. It’s more than we can handle—but it’s not more than He can handle. His strength gives us what we need to keep going. (see 2 Cor. 12:7-10)
  
  
  

• Say “It must be God’s will. You just have to have faith.” - This is true in the sense that we can trust in the goodness, sovereignty, and power of our loving Father. However, it’s of little comfort and typically sounds more like “Grin and bear it, oh you of little faith.” It also opens up theological questions of whether or not the painful results of sin and a broken world are in fact “God’s will” (for example, the death of a child, or the pain inflicted by someone else’s sin). I have rarely seen such deep theological waters to be an effective pain reliever.
  
  
  

• Say “You need to just turn it over to the Lord.” - It is true that we can and should entrust our pains to the Lord. This does not mean the painful circumstances disappear. This statement typically communicates that if you’re still struggling or in pain, you haven’t actually turned your troubles over to the Lord.
  
  
  

• Tell the person how to feel. - Any time you begin a phrase with “You should be…”, for example, after someone has passed away: “You should be grateful you had so much time with them,” or to an infertile couple, “You should be glad you have so much time together without a baby.” These types of statements suggest their pain is illogical or ill-grounded.
  
  
  

• Offer empty assurances. - Do not make a promise you can’t keep or aren’t sure of. Just because you would like it to be true, doesn’t mean it will be true. (Ex: I’m sure God will heal you; I’m sure you’ll have a baby; I’m sure you’ll find a good job.)
  
  
  

• Try to distract and entertain away the pain. - Some level of distraction can be a helpful respite in the midst of a painful season, but attempts to entertain away pain (as if it will disappear if we just don’t pay attention to it), are unrealistic and unhelpful. The presence of laughter does not mean the absence of pain. Laughter and distraction are valuable—but not when they become tools of denial.
  
  

At the end of such a list (with perhaps a few examples that sound a bit too familiar in your own voice), we can easily say “Well, then, what am I supposed to say?!” Read more about helpful ways to comfort someone in pain here. Hint: It may not actually involve that much talking on your part.

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This post originally appeared on May 3, 2017, and is part of a series on ministering to people in pain. Click here to see all the posts in this series.