“Honestly,” I said and paused, searching for the right words to put together, seeing that I wasn’t planning on saying any of this out loud. “I feel like I’m looking over a fence at some of my friends and family who believe that their trauma is culture and/or a personality type.” I paused again, pushing through the discomfort of sharing unrehearsed ideas to say, “and sometimes I wish I was on their side because it looks less lonely there.”
I heard what I’d said and knew that it was heavy. But I’m used to thinking heavy things. I’m even used to saying some of them to people who then bat them away like a piece of crumpled paper.
Stopping me from moving on to the next thing as I was already doing, my therapist said, “will you go back to what you just said and sit with that for a moment?” I smiled, realizing that I was being heard, and did as she suggested. And then, eyes closed, leaning into the possibility of healing, this thought came to me, I’ve been sitting with this all of my life. I’m ready to do the work.
I knew then that I was in the right place and that healing would be mine. Today, only 10 sessions in, I know that this is one of the bravest things I have ever done. Holding up the mirror to see my whole self–naked and broken–is hard. But I think it would be more painful to ignore my desire to seek restoration.
This process makes me think of Isaiah 61:4, which says, “They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated; they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations.”
This is not the first time I’ve used the metaphor of rebuilding ruins. And I don’t suppose it will be the last–there will always be a derelict building in me that needs to be destroyed and remade. And this process, albeit tough, is always worthwhile.
In Unmerited Blessings, explaining what I believe God was doing when He took me out of Bluefields and sent me to Arkansas, I wrote this: “There [in Arkansas], I began the process of deconstruction. And there [as a new believer], I surrendered because for ancient ruins to be rebuilt, they must be destroyed.”
I love the progression of this process. Years ago, I realized that some of my beliefs, feelings, and behaviors were birthed and rooted in fear and pain. I knew that they had to be exposed and named. Neglect is not normal. Physical violence is not normal. Body-shaming is not normal. Sexual abuse is not normal. Silence as a form of punishment is not normal. The list can go on and on, and sadly, it does.
Everything I just mentioned is hugely common in the community that saw me grow up. But hear this: none of it is normal. Just because something occurs frequently does not mean that it is ok. Let's pay attention to what inherent beliefs we are perpetuating and passing down to our children. As my therapist would say, sit with that for a moment, will you?
Going back to Isaiah 61, before the people rebuilt the devastated cities, they themselves had to be restored. It says in verse 3, [He has anointed me] “...to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”
This is the work! There is an acknowledgment of pain that had to happen for these people and a willingness to relinquish said sorrow in exchange for healing. THEN, from a place of inner-restoration, they began to toil the ground and build new cities.
Every week, I get to sit with and talk to a trained professional equipped to help me process and unravel my story. I feel NO SHAME in saying this. Not a bit. On the contrary, this is a gift and a privilege. And I cannot adequately convey how life-altering this is. I get to talk to someone who is helping me to understand why sometimes it is so hard to let go of the ashes to hold onto beauty. Simply put, she is giving me the tools to lay a new foundation for the house God wants to build.
When I began writing this, I didn't really know what it would become. Still, I’m glad for it to be this: an invitation for you to consider your ruins and your legacy. Yes, the work is grueling and costly. But even more so is living as hurt and stunted people.
I don’t know about you, but if healing is an ocean, I want to be in over my head.
