Every December, I find myself returning to the same Christmas movie. Last night, Carol and I watched It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve seen it more times than I can count, yet it still reaches a place in me that few stories can. It’s about a man who becomes so overwhelmed by the pressures and disappointments of life that he begins to believe the lie that the world would be better off without him. Years ago, I stood in a place painfully close to his.
I was in my late thirties when everything seemed to collapse at once. My businesses were failing. People were blaming me for things they themselves were supposed to handle. The weight of it all built until one day it finally broke me. A phone call accusing me of failing someone pushed me past what I could carry. I came home angry and exhausted. Carol and I argued, and when she began to cry—something she almost never does—it sent me over the edge. I grabbed a vase and threw it down the hallway. The shattering glass felt like a picture of my life. I walked out, got in my truck, and left. I wasn’t going to cool off. I was walking away.
I don’t remember the drive, but I remember where I ended up: the same place where Carol and I camped for the first time, the place where I once worked through conflict with David and Frank. A place tied to beginnings, now staring me down in the middle of my breaking. Everything inside me came pouring out—anger, fear, frustration, shame. I shouted until the weight finally tore loose.
When the echoes faded, I realized I wasn’t alone. Jesus was there. Not in a way my eyes could see, but in a presence that settled the storm inside me. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t correct me. He simply stayed until the last wave of emotion passed. And then, as gently as anything I’ve ever known, He spoke to my heart: It’s time to go home.
I walked back into the house unsure of what waited for me. The moment I opened the door, four little kids ran into my arms. Carol stood behind them—hurt, but still steady, still waiting for me to return. I didn’t deserve that kind of grace, but she gave it anyway.
Every time I watch It’s a Wonderful Life, that night comes back to me. I remember how real the enemy’s lies felt. Satan is the accuser, and in our weakest moments he whispers that we are failures, that people would be better off without us, that everything we touch falls apart. Those lies sound convincing when life is heavy.
But Jesus tells the truth. He comes right into the darkest places—not to condemn, but to carry us out. He silences the accusations that try to destroy us, and He reminds us of the worth He Himself gave us. He leads us back to the people who love us. He leads us back to life.
At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, Clarence leaves George Bailey a simple message:
“Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”
That line has stayed with me, because it points to something even deeper. The enemy may shout that we are failures, but Jesus gives us a Friend who never leaves. A Savior who steps into our weakness. A Brother who lifts us when we fall. In Him, we are never alone, and never without hope.
And that is why the movie—and my own story—ends the same way: with the quiet strength of Christ whispering into the broken places of our lives, It’s time to go home.