Wouldn’t healing be a wonderful thing if it could erase all of our pain, easing our misery and allowing us to move on? But, it doesn’t work that way – not for me.
If my past were to be erased, what would be left of who I am?
I like me. I like my sense of humor. I like my tenacity to get shit done. I love the everlasting thirst in me to learn more, to love deeper and be still.
So, what if I took everything about my past and abolished its existence?
That won’t work. I’ve built the very strength and fiber of my being around surviving. Brick by brick, I built a foundation that couldn’t be destroyed. I have walled in my city so to speak. I’m safe. I’m sound.
And, I still have these sickening dreams of my past. Sometimes they wake me up crying. Other times I want to scream at somebody to relinquish the anguish.
And, then, I rise. I rise to the occasion that I have love in my life. That God has led me beside quiet streams and taught me to deal.
He is a good, good Father. One that I’ve learned to adore.
Oh, He’s real. As real as my past but much, much bigger.
I now live in the land of the living, but that doesn’t separate me from the trauma my body, soul and mind lived through for decades. My purpose drives me on to tell my story and help set the next captive free.
Until I return to my Heavenly Father, I’m setting the table to enjoy my next guests. Bring on the holidays! I’m ready.