Reviews

AUSTIN -- Austin lawyer Hal Haralson jokes that people aren't surprised to learn that his mental illness was not a drawback when he decided to go to law school.

The line gets a laugh in the speeches he routinely gives on what it's like to be manic-depressive. That laughter is one sign of how far Haralson has come, as he speaks frankly about what he's been through in the 27 ears since mental illness suddenly struck.

He recounts his aborted suicide attempt that ended in a gas explosion at his home. He describes spending days in bed, paralyzed by indecision over simple matters. He talks of the shock treatments he underwent at San Antonio State Hospital.

But underlying his words is a message of hope. With treatment and the help of his family, church and friends, Haralson was able to work through his illness and eventually pursue a law career.

Now, he says, he's repaying those who helped him by helping others, spreading the word that there can be a good life beyond mental illness.

Haralson was a 26-year-old Southern Baptist minister on the staff of Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene when his illness manifested itself.

At the time, Haralson had been married for five years to his wife, Judy, who had looked forward to and enjoyed the role of minister's wife. Their oldest child, a daughter, was 4 and Mrs. Haralson was pregnant with their first son.

"The first warning was my inability to sleep, and my withdrawal. I didn't want to be around people. We knew something was wrong, because normally I was an organizer, promoter, leader and outgoing type," he said.

Haralson said his behavior was sometimes bizarre.

"I would go to the office and kind of touch base with my secretary. There was a closet up on the third floor that I knew about, and I would go up there and stay all day in this closet," he said.

Haralson also spent weeks at a time in bed, unable to work or face decisions: "The decision to get up and brush your teeth just becomes overwhelming."

The Haralsons moved to San Antonio so he could get outpatient treatment at the state hospital. There, Haralson said, a psychiatrist told his wife to pretend she was leaving him in an effort to shake him from his depression.

The move instead strengthened his growing resolve to kill himself.

"She left on Sunday, and Monday morning I woke up and turned on all the gas jets in the bedroom," he said. When the process did not work quickly enough to suit him, Haralson struck a match.

"The explosion blew me out the door," he said. When a policeman who came to the scene suggested that Haralson commit himself to the state hospital, he agreed.

In several months at the hospital, Haralson underwent 13 shock treatments. Therapy convinced him to leave the ministry, a decision he had fought even though he was unhappy in his work.

"Up to that point, I'd never failed at anything," he said. "People who are manic-depressive are frequently compulsive overachievers. That's the way I was. I literally had a plan mapped out at one time where I was going to wind up at age 50 being governor of Texas."

Haralson said his stay at the state hospital helped him toward a fulfilling life.

"They didn't cure me. A manic-depressive is never cured -- it's kind of like diabetes -- but they gave me the tools to turn things around," he said.

After his first hospital stay, Haralson worked in business and hospital administration before entering law school at the University of Texas at age 33.

He opened a law office after graduation, but was hospitalized several more times until 1974, when he began a regimen including the drug lithium that leveled his moods and ended his deep depression.

Currently, Haralson divides his time between his law practice, speaking engagements, volunteer work for a variety of mental health organizations and his family. Mrs. Haralson has become a psychotherapist, and their three children are grown and successfully pursuing their own lives, he said.

Haralson said his speeches at churches and other gatherings -- for which he is paid only for his expenses -- have yielded tangible results.

A number of people have told him his story gave them hope to get through their own mental illness, including a preacher who stepped into a church on his way to commit suicide.

"He stopped at this church he's never been to and I was preaching, and it just blew his mind, because my story and his story were incredibly similar," Haralson said. The man decided against suicide and recently retired after 20 years as a minister, he said.

"Boy, if you can do that once in a lifetime, you've hit a lick."

The Quakers have a saying: "Let your life speak." On the surface, Hal Haralson's life seems that of an ordinary Texan: a "country lawyer," a family man and lifetime Baptist. But Gentle Mercies reveals life lived extraordinarily.

The book begins with a story of how Mr. Haralson, a young Baptist minister and Army private, started a small church that flourished. It's a pleasant, slightly self-congratulatory and unremarkable tale. The next chapter finds Mr. Haralson in a padded room in a mental hospital after a suicide attempt. His condition was diagnosed as bipolar disorder, which he battles to this day.

Yet Gentle Mercies is no "feel my pain" survivor tale. Although the illness periodically shut down his career, Mr. Haralson bears it matter-of-factly, like an old football injury. Life goes on.

His book is a quirky collection of stories and reflections from his life. Some have deep spiritual messages; some don't. "Beware of Brothers Bearing Scams" tells of a hilarious ruse that his son employed to scam his younger brother. "I've tried to get a lesson from this story," Mr. Haralson concludes. "No luck. If the reader finds a lesson, I would appreciate it if you would let me know."

At book's end, Mr. Haralson's life speaks of miracles - borne of deep, lasting connections with people, and of profound honesty with oneself, with others and with God. Mr. Haralson ended up leaving the ministry but remains a believer.

With its deft touch, this little book leaves the reader filled with hope and faith, too.

Gentle Mercies: True Stories of Faith in Faded Blue Jeans by Hal Haralson

Comments: I don't trust professional reviews of a book or its position on bestseller lists. I do trust the opinions of friends or my own instinct in choosing a book. In this case, both criteria resulted in a thoroughly enjoyable reading experience. My friend, Bob Mitchell, a retired pastor, recommended Gentle Mercies to me.

Hal Haralson's notable achievements at Hardin-Simmons University and 10 years of subsequent effectiveness as a Baptist minister left little doubt regarding his direction in life. That was until a suicide attempt brought on by severe clinical depression put him in a state mental institution for six weeks and 13 shock treatments. With God's help and the support of his wife, the author reshaped his life as a successful attorney more comfortable in blue jeans and boots than a dark gray suit.

Through individually entertaining vignettes ranging from hilariously funny to deep down-home philosophy, Haralson recounts anecdotes in a style that appeals to anyone who appreciates the irony, humor and characters we experience in life. The story titled "A Rusty Lard Bucket and One Spur" alone is worth the price of the book. This book is what would result if Max Lucado wrote the "Chicken Soup" books.

Gentle Mercies is an easy read with identifiable people and situations that we all can relate to, written with a rare combination of humor and depth. I already have recommended it to several friends.

Nearly 40 years after giving up his credentials as a Baptist preacher, Hal Haralson is back in the ministry business.

He never actually left it. For 30 years, Haralson worked out of the courthouse instead of the church house as a lawyer in Austin. He considered his legal career just as much of a ministry as his years as an ordained Baptist minister.

Now hat he's retired from law, Haralson, 67, has embarked on yet another form of ministry -- reaching out to people who suffer from mental illness as he has much of is life. The 1957 Hardin-Simmons University graduate and former trustee published a collection of short stories and poems he hopes will touch people's lives in ways he couldn't as a minister or a lawyer.

Gentle Mercies: Stories of Faith in Faded Blue Jeans was published three months ago by Cook Communications in Colorado Springs, Colo., and has sold 6,000 copies.

"I feel like once again God has given me an opportunity o do something with my experience," Haralson said.

©2004 by Hal Haralson, all rights reserved. Stories may be reproduced with proper attribution. For permission, contact hal@gentlemercies.com