Where’s the best place to start this story? A story that Jen and I call “A Journey of Trust.”
This isn’t a fairy tale, and it’s certainly not a story meant to spotlight me. It’s a true account — marked by heartbreaks and victories, devastating lows and hard fought highs. This journey became my testimony. Not because of what I did, but because of what He did in my life.
It’s a heartfelt testimony about the One who gave me comfort in the midst of the storm. The One whose name I once mocked. The One I turned away from. And still — He met me in the depths. He reached down to take my hand and walk with me through the darkest valley of my life.
We all have a story to tell. But I’ve come to understand that the most powerful ones are those where God holds the pen. When He‘s the author of the story, your life becomes more than just survival — it becomes a living testimony.
So let me begin at the lowest point in my life. I believe this is the perfect place to start. Because sometimes, when you’re flat on your back and deep in the trenches, the only place to look… is up.
At this point in my life, I was a wreck. Every aspect of my world seemed to be falling apart, shattering into a million pieces I believed could never be put back together. How could something so completely broken ever find its way back again?
Months earlier, everything I had built began to fall apart. I had left my career in law enforcement to pursue a business venture, and at first, it looked promising. But behind the scenes, I had built a house of cards — and when one piece gave out, the rest collapsed with it.
At the time, we lived in a wonderful town with a beautiful home — now slipping into foreclosure.
My wife, the woman I deeply loved since high school, was doing everything she could to keep our family together. She pleaded with me to stay in a second home her mother had purchased nearby, hoping it would give us space to heal.
But pride is a stubborn thing, and it gets in the way of sensibility. Pride whispers, “You’ve got this. You don’t need help. You can fix this on your own.” But the truth is, pride builds walls — walls that cause separation from the very healing and restoration God wants to bring in.
I was so busy trying to hold my broken pieces together with my own hands that I lost sight of what was truly important. Worse yet, my brokenness led me to turn away from the very One who could put me back together. It’s like Proverbs 16:18 says, “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” And the reality was, this fall was steep, costly — and it was going to hurt.
I insisted on staying in the home we purchased, clinging to what I believed would happen with the business. Even as the power was shut off and the walls echoed with emptiness, I stayed. Stubborn in my ways, with depression setting in, I sat alone in the darkness. Even as the lights were cut off and the silence grew louder, I remained in that empty house — holding on to what was already lost and gone.
Eventually, my absence broke something in my wife. Her faithfulness had held her there far longer than anyone could have expected, but my downward spiral into despair seeped into every part of our life together. Over time, she came to believe that I had truly abandoned her — and then she spoke the word I’d feared most: “Divorce.”
Hearing that crushed me. I couldn’t imagine life without her, or without my kids. But deep down, I believed it was what she needed to do — because in my mind, I was worthless. That’s what depression does: it feeds you lie after lie until you start to hate yourself and the life you once fought for.
One afternoon, I walked through that empty house. It was silent —too silent. The kind of silence that screams in your ears. There was also a gloom that fell within the walls of the home. A gloom that seemed to permeate every fiber of my being.
As I passed my children’s rooms, the loneliness screamed louder than ever. A voice echoed in my head, taunting me relentlessly: “You’re a failure. A loser. You ruined everything.” But the truth is, even those words don’t come close to what I really heard inside. The voice was vicious — rude, ruthless, laced with expletives that tore me down to nothing. Every word dug deeper, convincing me I was beyond hope, beyond repair, and that the world — my family — would be better off without me.
In the master bedroom we once shared, I noticed a small Anne Geddes photo box tipped over, its contents scattered across the floor — snapshots of my wife, my kids, our better days. I dropped to my knees, gathering the photos in trembling hands as tears streamed down my face. It felt like my heart was being torn apart piece by piece, any last thread of hope ripped away. The pain was suffocating — a despair that stabbed like a knife, tearing and ripping at the very core of who I was.
As I paced around the bedroom, my eyes landed on a Bible lying on the floor beside my bed. The sight of it sparked something deep inside me — a burning anger that quickly turned into a raging fire. I stormed over, snatched the Bible up in my hands, and before I could even think, I tore it in half. I shouted at God — screamed at Him — swearing He wasn’t real, that He had abandoned me. And with all that bitterness boiling over, I hurled the torn pages to the floor and yelled out the words I never thought I’d say:“I hate You.”
The weight of hopelessness pressed down on me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t shake off its suffocating grip. Clutching a handful of the scattered photos, I carried them into the master bathroom with its cold, tiled jacuzzi tub. I laid each picture along the edge of the tub — faces of my wife, my kids, fragments of a life that felt forever out of reach.
Then I went downstairs and found a pen and paper. With shaking hands, I managed to write a simple note:
“Jen — if you see this note, please don’t come in. Call the State Police. I’m sorry. I love you.”
I taped the note to the side door — the door we always used, the one she’d see first. Then I climbed the stairs again, each step heavier than the last, each one carrying a weight of agony I could barely stand. I walked into the closet, reached up, and grabbed my .40 caliber Glock. With my heart pounding and my hands cold and numb, I stepped into the tub — surrounded by the faces I thought I’d never see again.
Frozen in the moment, I sat there very still, pictures of my family beside me.
Tears. Anger. Emptiness. I couldn’t see a way out.
The gun rested in my hand. The cold steel of the barrel pressed against my temple. I was ready to end it all. I kept trying to convince myself that this was the only way — that my family would be better off without me. The grief twisted itself into an encourager, whispering that this was the only escape left.
Strangely, I had placed my cell phone on the edge of the tub — a detail that doesn’t make sense even now. Why would I need a phone?
And then… it rang.
I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a local area code. Could it be Jen? Maybe, deep down, there was still a tiny spark of hope — even if it felt like a false one.
I answered.
“Mr. Thomann?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Josie’s Sunday School teacher,” the woman replied. She was from a small church down the road that Jennifer and the kids began to attend after we moved to the area.
She paused briefly. Then she said:
“I don’t know what you’re about to do… but Jesus put on my heart to tell you that He loves you.”
At that moment, everything inside shattered. The hate, the depression, the negativity, seemed to no longer have its stronghold over me. I was utterly broken — not from pain, but from grace. The same God I had cursed… had just answered my cry. Jesus heard me — and He came to save me from myself. He was real.
The conversation we had brought comfort to my broken heart. Although my reality hadn’t changed, as I still had consequences to deal with. I knew, deep down in every fiber of my being, that God was with me. I didn’t completely understand it. But I knew that Jesus was real and He had reached into my darkest moment – delivering me from myself and from the clutches of death itself.
In that very moment, I realized I wasn’t fighting this battle alone anymore. I had an Advocate — a Savior — who would walk me through the hell that had swallowed up my life. He didn’t promise it would be easy, but He promised I’d never be alone again. And somehow, that was enough to take the next breath. It was exactly what I needed right then.
That’s where it all began. Right there in the darkness, when I had nothing left to give and no hope left, Jesus stepped in. He met me at the bottom of the pit – the place I felt was my end. He showed me it wasn’t over. This was actually a new beginning.
This story is one that speaks of the faithfulness of Jesus. The same God that I had cursed had been waiting for me all along. I built the wall of separation and He tore it down. He pulled me out of my despair; He began rewriting my life, one page at a time.
I want you to know this: whatever valley you find yourself in, you’re not alone. God walks with you in your darkest hour. He gives you shelter in the midst of the storm – a storm that you may have created yourself. He’s the hand reaching down to lift you up, the Author who takes broken stories and turns them into living testimonies of His grace.
This story is the beginning of A Journey of Trust. It’s a story marked by heartbreak and hard-fought victories – but also by a Savior who never lets go. From this moment forward, what unfolds is not a story of survival but redemption. With Jesus, your story doesn’t end in darkness; it rises into the light of victory.
So let’s start here – at the lowest point – and embark on a journey where God turns ruin into restoration.
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