…After listening compassionately to our concerns, our pastor explained the power of generational sin. He suggested that this might be giving a foothold to the evil one, and factoring into the inner turmoil of our precious boy. He recommended working through a freedom-based curriculum… He then made a further suggestion… Rather than simply seeking to address the brokenness in our son, we could work through the curriculum fully. For ourselves…
The pastor suggested we take some time to pray about our decision…
The time had come. My husband and I were welcomed warmly into the Pastor’s study. The men exchanged pleasantries about the weather and kids. My eyes scan rows of books lined neatly on shelves, then gaze out the window at speeding cars. Looking anywhere but the Pastor’s face.
I know what I need to do, but everything inside me protests.
God had clearly spoken to my heart, telling me that it was time to acknowledge my hurt, to stop pretending everything was fine, and to seek healing for my brokenness. Refusing to follow his leading would be an act of willful disobedience and rebellion.
I had come to a crossroads of sorts. Would I continue to claim that I trusted Christ, but in actuality trust no one but myself? Continue to live in a state of constant hyper vigilance, letting no one close enough to ever hurt me again? Or would I take a step of faith and walk the path he had so clearly shown me?
The journey toward healing is not one I would have chosen.
That dark place in my past was tightly locked, and I had no intentions of going there. Ever. I worked hard to keep the memories caged, as if pretending that it had never happened would make it so.
Utterly futile. The memories reached, unbidden, into my everyday life. Screaming lies of unworthiness. Wrecking havoc in my relationships. Terrorizing my dreams. Taunting me to the point of despair.
And yet, I thought this was better somehow. Better than admitting, even to myself, that I was a victim of abuse. Better than lowering my wall of self-protection, exposing my vulnerabilities and risking further harm.
How then, you might ask, did my journey begin?
Well… God, in his abundant grace, understood my fears and my stubborn resolve to suffer in silence, but loved me too much to leave me there.
So difficult to know where to begin…
My journey toward healing has been an interesting one. At times excruciatingly painful, at times life-giving and freeing. At no point has it been easy.
I’d like to take you back to the day when I sensed God confirming that my healing would come, but would come slowly, and with much struggle.
A young lady in her mid-twenties had come to speak at my church. She had recently been rescued from the evil world of human trafficking. She shared many horrifying details of the traumas she had endured. Abused, humiliated, shamed and dehumanized. Left with scars, both physical and emotional. This had been her reality.
And yet, she beamed with joy as she shared how, in a moment, her whole world had changed. She was rescued from her hell on earth, and was shown love and compassion for the first time that she could remember. In time, she was introduced to Christ, and accepted his free gift of salvation – his offer to adopt her into his family, to restore her brokenness, and to redeem all her hurts. In a moment of complete surrender, she was able to release her pain. The crushing oppression was lifted. Peace for fear. Love for self-loathing. Joy for despair. She was free.
And how did I feel hearing her story?
I’d love to tell you that I rejoiced along with her, celebrating her freedom from oppression, her optimistic hope, and her beaming joy.
But that would be a lie.