I Can Only Imagine

by Bart Millard

  When you have the biggest hit song in history in your musical genre, the pressure from the industry is unbelievable, almost unbearable. Everyone expected another power ballad to match or even rival “Imagine.”

  How in the world do you top that? Can you top that? Especially when it was so obviously a work of the Lord. You don’t just send up a prayer and schedule those into your life. That’s why they call it God’s will.

  Just don’t ruin what we’ve got became MercyMe’s unspoken motto. That attitude permeated the band’s being. We were working so hard just to not derail the momentum that the hit song had built.

  When you start buying into the hype, taking on other people’s pressures and expectations, and working from such a negative perspective, you can’t possibly enjoy what you’re doing. And you also can’t try anything new and venture into fresh territory, because the past is always banging on your front door.

  We were just a little worship band from Texas that wanted to make music and honor the Lord, but now everything we dreamed of and hoped for had come true. At the same time, life got really, really complicated.

  Life Before and After 2004

  For Shannon and me, 2004 was one of those eternal time markers. We actually refer to our lives as pre-2004 and post-2004. Late one January night, Shannon’s nineteen-year-old brother, Chris, showed up at our door in Greenville—we had moved back to our hometown in 1998—and said he really needed to talk to us. He had just had his heart broken, and he was distraught.

  Shannon had been his champion, no matter what, and she had always supported and believed in him. So we talked with him for hours, into the middle of the night. But he started getting rude with her, and I told him someone ought to take him outside and knock some sense into him. He asked me if I was going to be the one to do that. I clarified that I was just trying to say he desperately needed to straighten up and think through his life.

  Soon after, he headed toward the front door. He opened it, stopped, and turned to us.

  “Tell Sam I love him,” he said. (Sam was two years old.)

  We tried to get him to stay, but he refused.

  It didn’t take long for Shannon to get concerned about what he had said and how he had said it. She asked me to try to find him. I knew where he was staying, so I drove there.

  Nothing.

  I went everywhere I thought he might have gone but couldn’t locate him. Finally, early in the morning, I headed back home and went to bed.

  At eight in the morning, our phone rang. It was Shannon’s dad. After Chris left our house, he fell asleep at the wheel. The one-car accident on a local back road had been fatal.

  Shannon was in hysterics. We were both devastated. When the initial shock wore off, it hit me: I had upset him. I thought, I’m responsible for my brother-in-law’s death. No matter how much anyone tried to reassure me that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent what had happened, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t shake it.

  The guilt was unbearable. I carried that burden around with me, along with all my other ones—old and new baggage together. But this one was different—this was about someone’s death. I replayed in my mind what I could have said, what I shouldn’t have said, what I should have done. The loop seemed endless.

  Three months later, in April 2004, Shannon got pregnant with our second child. In early November, Shannon started having contractions, but she was still six weeks away from her due date.

  The doctor and nurses at the hospital determined our baby girl was indeed coming prematurely, and there was a great deal of concern because of development issues that can often affect preemies. A lot can go wrong when a birth is that early.

  On November 4, 2004, Gracie Millard came into the world. By the grace of God, she and Shannon were fine, and in a few days, we took our tiny new daughter home to join our son, Sam.

  Just after we got home from the hospital, I had to fly to LA to attend the American Music Awards. MercyMe had been nominated for Favorite Contemporary Inspirational Artist. Sheryl Crow was the presenter, and when she opened the envelope, she called our name. Because of the time difference between California and Texas, I didn’t call Shannon until the next morning, after I had gotten to the airport.

  As soon as she answered, I said, “Hey, we won, and Sheryl Crow gave us our award!”

  “Something is wrong with Sam,” she replied, as though she hadn’t heard me. “I’ve taken him to his pediatrician, but as soon as you get home, we need to take him to Children’s Hospital in Dallas.” Sam was constantly thirsty, as if he couldn’t get enough to drink. He was also very fatigued, unusually so for a toddler.

  Of course, my entire focus changed. I just needed to get back home as quickly as I could.

  By the time I arrived, Shannon’s parents had already come to the house to take care of Gracie, and we left right away to take Sam to the hospital. My American Music Award now sat unnoticed in the floorboard of the car. Interesting how priorities can so quickly change.

  After running some tests, the doctor diagnosed Sam with juvenile diabetes. I asked, “So he’ll outgrow this, right? This isn’t permanent?”

  When he explained what Sam had is an incurable illness, my heart broke into a million pieces. He’s still just a baby, I thought.

  Nothing hurts more than when something happens to one of your kids, especially if it’s something you have zero control over. Nothing in this life is more difficult than when your little boy begs, “Fix it, Daddy,” and you tell him that you can’t. Everything in you screams because you want more than anything to stop his suffering.

  We spent the next week in the hospital, learning more than we ever wanted to know about shots, blood tests, and diet restrictions. Every day we had to give Sam four or five shots and prick his finger ten times—and he had no idea why. It was overwhelming for all of us, especially because Gracie had just come home from the hospital.

  Shannon was still recovering from childbirth and taking care of a newborn, so I had to step up to the plate in learning all the details of Sam’s new lifestyle. Eventually, because Sam was such an easygoing and resilient kid, he adapted, but the added responsibilities, rigid schedule, and restricted diet was a major game changer for our family, especially after years of living the unpredictable life of a musician.

  An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse

  The next weekend the band was supposed to play in Pasadena, California, at the Rose Bowl, for what would be one of Billy Graham’s last evangelical crusade appearances.

  Brickell called Dr. Graham’s office and explained that the band would have to cancel due to what had happened with Sam. I just couldn’t leave my family for the two to three days it would take for the bus trip. The Graham folks were very understanding and accepted our regrets, but the next day, Dr. Graham’s assistant called Brickell back. He wanted to make me an offer: If a private jet picked me up at 6:00 p.m. in Texas, and I could be back home by midnight, would I consider coming? He added that Dr. Graham wanted a few minutes alone with the band to pray for Sam and our family.

  What could I say? Shannon and I agreed I should go.

  The band and crew went on via bus as scheduled. When I arrived at the Rose Bowl that evening, we were ushered into a covered area near the platform. On the other side, a number of security personnel appeared with a group of people, and we assumed Dr. Graham had been brought up to the stage. The press immediately began to congregate in that area. But that was only a planned diversion.

  Dr. Graham walked through the doorway in the stage covering. He smiled politely, introduced himself, and explained how they divert attention when he needs to visit privately with someone. He spoke with us briefly, thanked us for coming, and then prayed a beautiful, personal, heartfelt prayer over Sam and our family. It was a moment I will never, ever forget.

  We played our set at the crusade, and then, just as promised, I was back home with my family by midnight.

  Asking the Hard Questions

  When you are perceived by the public
to be a celebrity, people can say really hurtful things to you. Unintentionally hurtful, maybe, but still hurtful. They may mean well, but that doesn’t make it easier to hear a total stranger talk about your kid. When people asked if we had prayed for Sam’s healing or they offered some other super-spiritual sentiment, the good-church-boy side of me smiled and answered, “Yes, we sure have. Thanks so much for your concern. God is good.”

  But dealing with so many people who talked to us about Sam’s illness made me realize that those of us in high-visibility Christianity are expected to be “on” all the time, even though we—like everyone else—have moments when it’s really hard to handle life. There are nights when you don’t want to stand onstage and tell people that everything is going to be all right, because sometimes you aren’t certain yourself. How do you tell an arena of ten thousand people who came to hear about heaven and hope that you’re hurting because of your little boy’s suffering and you’re struggling to just hang on to your own faith? That’s not the message they paid good money to hear. You’re supposed to encourage them in their problems, not voice anything about your own.

  Adding to our crises, Shannon’s dad was having serious health issues. After a CT scan, his doctor found a grapefruit-sized tumor in his brain. The surgeon scheduled an operation right away. They told him to say his goodbyes before surgery because he might not make it through. It’s so tough to pray and believe when you have to tell someone you deeply love goodbye, just in case.

  Thank God that the surgeons were able to successfully remove the tumor. But we felt very much as if we had been thrown into “the valley of the shadow of death” that the psalmist referred to in Psalm 23. As much as you hate to admit it to yourself, you start to think, Okay, God, what horrible thing are You going to allow next? What other bad news is right around the corner?

  Bart on Bart

  I was raised in a fearful, performance-based environment. So when I was introduced to the Christian life and started to read the Bible, I filtered everything more through the law of the Old Testament, not the grace of the New Testament. While the reality of faith in Christ is found in a balance between them, most Christians lean toward one side or the other—law or grace.

  I most definitely leaned toward following the law, keeping the rules, and towing the line. (Remember the “I don’t cuss” story?) My vision statement went something like this: “Just be a good Christian, and the good you do will always outweigh the bad.” Well, honestly, doesn’t that sound more like a statement about karma from Hinduism or Buddhism? Far too many of us in Western, first-world Christianity think like this.

  My spiritual worldview was way more dependent on me following the rules and doing the right thing than on Christ and submitting to His saving work on the cross.

  The professional expectations on me were crushing. I was MercyMe’s catalyst and founder, its lead singer and front man, and the writer of its biggest hit. If there was an interview scheduled, I had to be there. If one of the other guys got sick or needed to take a leave of absence, we could hire another player for a short stint, but fans and promoters don’t like the lead singer being substituted, not even for a single show. If I couldn’t make it, we had to cancel. In business terms, demand for me outweighed supply.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my work and have never wanted to quit, but I realized that I wanted the option the other guys had to be able to take a break or miss a show.

  So, let’s recap: I was facing mounting artistic and industry pressure, multiple family crises, and career claustrophobia. And all the while I felt as though my walk with God was dependent on my own behavior and ability to be strong. This, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.

  Finally, I couldn’t take anymore.

  I hit rock bottom.

  I found the end of Bart Millard.

  Falling into a deep, dark cavern of depression, I stopped functioning. Sitting and staring into the abyss became a regular activity.

  If you were to look at MercyMe’s calendar during that time, you would have said, “But, Bart, you still hit the stage, smiled at everyone, sang your heart out, and shared hope with the crowds!” Yes, I did. It’s what I do. I’m a professional artist. But here’s the other side of that: the road was an escape from reality for me. Performing was a major distraction because I didn’t need to do much more than sing pretty. The world on the road is really small and predictable. The daily schedule is posted on the bus door, and each day looks a lot like the day before, regardless of the city you’re in.

  But back home, I had to be a husband and father. I had to look at the chair where my brother-in-law sat right before he walked out of our lives forever. I had to look my son in the eyes, wondering why he had to have diabetes.

  This is how a lot of artists—Christian or mainstream—end up having great success but losing their families. Back home there are demands and bills and diapers, while the road brings spotlights, catered dinners, and adoring fans asking for pictures and autographs. It’s an illusion that lasts only as long as the success holds up.

  Come-to-Jesus Meeting

  The turning point came when I went to the doctor. I stepped onto his scale and saw that I weighed 370 pounds. My blood pressure and cholesterol were high. I had developed type 2 diabetes. I was experiencing sleep apnea. And, to top it all off, I was in the beginning stages of congestive heart failure.

  The doctor looked at my chart and sternly stated, “Your dad died in his forties. Your grandfather died in his forties. You are headed in exactly the same direction, to the same end, if you don’t change now.

  “I know you have another major tour right around the corner, so here’s what we’re going to do,” he continued. “This is Thursday. Next Tuesday, I am scheduling you for gastric sleeve surgery. It’s a weight-loss procedure that will remove part of your stomach and restrict the amount of food you can eat. I’ve seen you try to lose weight, but right now time is just something you cannot afford.

  “Normally, it takes me several months to get this surgery through insurance due to the requirement of counseling to emotionally prepare you for such a transformation. But because of the small window of time you have before leaving for your tour, we need to move forward. You can start counseling afterward.”

  There are times when someone highly credible tells you a truth definitively and assertively. While you want to scream and run out the door in full-on denial, you just know in your heart that you need to listen and obey the expert. This was most certainly one of those times.

  I complied with everything he said, and it was the beginning of a new chapter for my family. Following the surgery, all the health issues the doctor discovered went away. Over time, my blood pressure returned to normal, my cholesterol stabilized, the diabetes disappeared, and, of course, I lost a lot of weight—130 pounds, to be exact.

  Inside Out

  When we began the counseling required for the surgery, Shannon and I agreed that, with all that had gone on in our lives, my health crisis was ultimately a good thing. We believed it was God pushing us to get the help we needed to deal with our grief and stress, which turned out to be the reason behind my massive weight gain in the first place. She knew much of what had happened with my parents, but there was also a lot I had stuffed down, hidden, and denied that the counselor helped me work through.

  For example, our entire married life, I had never wanted to do the dishes. I had no problem eating from them, but when dinner was over, picking them up and washing them was a struggle. I finally shared the story about Dad breaking the plate over my head. It’s still hard for me to watch that scene in the movie.

  I had always struggled to sit at the dinner table with my family. That came from Dad not letting me get up until I had eaten what was on my plate. I recalled one specific incident when he made me sit at the table for six hours until I had finished some dish he had cooked that I absolutely hated.

  And then there was mowing the lawn. I had taken care of Mammaw Millard’s yard, but she had very l
ittle grass—mostly just gravel with weeds growing up through it. When I cut her “grass,” the mower blade kicked out tiny pieces of rock. By the time I was finished, my legs were bloody from flying debris. I would cry and tell Dad how much it hurt, but he just said I needed to toughen up and take it. I hated every minute of mowing her yard because of the pain from the cuts I endured.

  I had grown up in a home where I never felt safe. In fact, that house in Greenville was the place where I felt the most fear. School, church, and my friends’ homes were far more secure than the place I had lived. Now, my brother-in-law’s death had caused me to feel that same lack of safety and security in my own home. The fear transferred. The memories there were too painful. I had watched my father die in my childhood home and heard my brother-in-law’s final words in my adult home. I just felt that home could never be a safe place.

  These are just a few of the revelations that counseling brought out for me. There were many others. I realized that I had not only avoided the problematic household activities but also avoided telling Shannon why I couldn’t do them. The painful details of my abuse were the elephant in the room and—as the saying goes—the only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. One particular counseling session lasted all day long, which was really painful but also very good. Working on yourself and looking into your heart to deal with the pain so you can be the best person you can is absolutely the healthiest decision for you and those you love.

  When Shannon and I sat down for our first counseling session, the counselor looked at me and said, “Congratulations, Bart. Because you are here and ready to work on your life, you are in the healthiest place you have ever been.” That positive perspective helped me know that everything was going to be all right.