Depressed about losing his job and tired of being in a perpetually lonely, drunken and drugged-out state, Ron Puckett grabbed a box cutter with his left hand and pressed the instrument tightly against the left side of his throat.
The blade cut through his skin within a millimeter of his carotid artery and certain death. But then he stopped. And in his mind, there is only one possible explanation for why.
“I stopped myself because I think God had a purpose for me,” Ron says. “He wasn’t done with me yet.”