For Steve Austin
My dear friend Steve Austin died last weekend on Saturday, June 5. He was 38 years old. I learned of his passing the following Wednesday. I sat at my computer frantically searching post after post on Twitter, hoping that somehow what I'd read had been worded wrong, or that somehow, it just wasn't true, or that I was dreaming and couldn't wake up.
But it was true.
I shouted at my computer, "NO! Oh, God, NO! No, no, NO! Oh, God! Oh, God! NO!" I couldn't breathe.
A week has passed and I still feel like I can't breathe. Each day I've sat at my desk at work and cried, "Oh, Steve." The outpouring of posts on social media have ripped my heart open over and over again with their expressions of love and grief.
What a lovely person he was. This picture captures him so perfectly. Can you see the light? So much light.
I met Steve on Twitter after reading one of his tweets someone had shared. His thoughts on faith and mental health instantly caught my attention, since only a couple of years earlier, I had written my dissertation on the intersection of corporate worship and soul care. "Here's an ally," I thought as I read his post.
Wow. What an ally he was!
And so began our few precious years of friendship, shared through an app, blog posts, and emails. Steve read my dissertation (now you know how much grace he had!) and even borrowed from it for his book, Hiding in the Pews: Shining Light on Mental Illness in the Church, that will be published in the coming months. I had shared with him my own difficult journey through depression and spiritual abuse, and my longing to know God for who he truly was. Steve relentlessly cheered me on.
Steve knew what he was talking about, for he had survived a suicide attempt in 2012 as he fought to grapple with childhood abuse, spiritual abuse, and the unbearable weight of trying to hide in plain sight. Following this, Steve wrote fearlessly about these things, along with his long journey to mend a view of God that had been broken by religious legalism and fundamentalism. His podcasts, books, and websites were an oasis of comfort and hope for more hurting lives than he ever could have known.
His signature hashtags #graceismessy and #slowmiracles defined his message. Steve had the most open and accepting heart I have every encountered. Honestly, it was astonishing how loving he was. You see, that's the thing I realized about him as I was journaling two nights ago: Steve was safe. He was the safest person I've ever encountered. I mean that: no judgement at all. You could have told him the deepest, darkest secret in your life and he would have just hugged you even more tightly. Steve had learned that life was a long journey, that it was hard and never linear. And he was determined to mend every broken heart he encountered.
Steve had a beautiful wife, Lindsey, and two adorable children. They were just such a cute family, and I loved Steve's posts about them, their travels, their pet pig, Mercy. I remember his post from last Christmas when they took a trip for the holidays and woke up to snow on Christmas Eve. Steve posted a video of himself and his children as they sat outside and sang "White Christmas." He had so many pairs of colorful glasses, loved fun sneakers, and quirky hair. His sense of humor was off the chart, and his laugh positively addictive.
In his last message to me, Steve called me "beloved friend." That was so like him. Even now as I type it, my heart swells and tears fill my eyes. And I really do feel loved. I hear those words in my head whenever I'm tempted to beat myself up or be self-critical: beloved friend. What a healing balm.
I will never not miss you, Steve. I miss knowing you are in the world. I miss your funny tweets, your nourishing podcasts, your raw honesty. I'm so, so, so sorry that life became too hard, that there was no more margin. But I will see you again. And then all the sad things will have come "untrue," as Tolkien wrote. Thank you for seeing me - oh! you were so good at that! Thank you for giving so much to so many. Thank you for teaching us how to love, to see grace for what it really was, for showing us a view of God we might never have seen had it not been for your good heart.
I love you, my friend. My dear beloved friend.