Writing.....

When You Tell Your Story....

My story isn't about me. It's about the work that Jesus has done in my life. I just happened to play a part in it. This morning he put it on my heart to share my story, or at least part of it, on this blog. 

So here it is. This is my journey with Christ. 

7 years old. Grew up in church, finishing first grade, and something was stirring. Something was moving. The last couple of days, I had felt something in my heart and I'd been reading the little New Testament more than usual. I'd been praying more than usual. But this time was different. 

This prayer was different. This time I prayed with my mom to invite Jesus into my heart.

And he came. 

On June 5th, 2005, at the age of 7, I was baptized. There it was. I was going to follow Jesus now. 

9 years old. Crying. Shaking. Where was she? I just wanted her to come back, to keep me from whatever this scary thing was that was happening to me. 

My dad's voice echoed in my head long after he stopped screaming. He was angry. Why? I didn't do anything. I thought he wouldn't be upset with me. But he was furious. He backed me into the corner. Screaming at me. Why? 

Tears flooding my eyes I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in. Was Jesus there with me? 

10 years old. Shaking so hard I could barely pick up the phone and dial her number. She was only gone for a couple of hours, she said. Why was Daddy being so mean? 

Locked in the bathroom again. Crying to her. Come home, Mommy, please come home. I'm scared. 

Where was Jesus? Why wasn't he protecting me? What was happening? 

11 years old. Sixth grade. August, 2009. Trembling, shaking, sobbing. 

My stomach in knots. My eyes swollen from crying. My world went black. She was gone again for a meeting. She thought we would be alright for a couple of hours. It was night. Dark. 

He was angry. Why? He screamed at me, loomed over me, chased me. I ran from him. He followed me, screaming that I was unsubmissive. He was in charge. Why didn't I acknowledge it? 

I sobbed, screaming for anything that would let me escape. Running, tripping over my own feet, paralyzed by fear. My room will be safe. It doesn't have a lock.  

He ripped open the door and I cringed against the wall. Shaking. Screaming for help. Nothing. No one. Pinned against the wall. My body was dripping with sweat. And he was still screaming. Forcing me into submission. After all, he was in charge. 

Didn't he love Jesus? Why was he doing this? He was the guy at church who always wore a suit and tie. He was a big deal at church, too. What was going on? 

Where was Jesus in that moment? Why didn't he protect me? Was he sitting up there, looking on, while the daddy who was supposed to be my hero was hurting me? 

11 years old. 2009. It was still dark, even though it wasn't nighttime. I had found a way to make that pain hurt less, I thought. Maybe it would go away. 

But maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it would make it worse. But I didn't think of that. I didn't know the word for what I was doing. But I later discovered the term was "sexual experimentation." On myself.

I didn't think about Jesus in those moments. I thought he wouldn't like me. Because I was dirty. But I couldn't stop. Once I started it was too hard not to keep going. 

15 years old. December 2013. My grandfather passed away. He was such a godly man. If anyone knew Jesus, it was him. I was very close to my grandpa. When he died just before Christmas it shattered my heart. I was plunged into depression. 

15 years old, May 2013. Overwhelmed, I was suicidal. I was ready to overdose on any pills I could get my hands on. I was breaking inside and screaming for someone to help me. I didn't see anything to live for and I wanted the pain to stop. 

My teachers told me off to my counselor at school, who called my home. Called my dad. I was on suicide watch for 24 hours but my parents thought it was just because I was stressed by homework. 

I began to stop talking to people. I must be bad. Something was wrong with me. I was so lonely. 

16 years old. 2014. I had stopped attending youth group because it was just too much. The people were too shallow. The girls were all in cliques, and none of them included me. For a while I kept trying. Until I was stood up at a retreat. That was the last straw. I stopped and never went back. 

Addicted to sexual self-harm and experimentation. Quite literally. I was enslaved. I didn't even know if I was still a virgin, even though I was undatable. I couldn't get a guy. I reasoned I wasn't beautiful anymore, if I ever had been. And I definitely wasn't lovable. 

Even when my body was in pain from what I was doing, I reasoned I couldn't stop. It felt good for long enough that I had to keep going. Nothing else felt good. Matter of fact, nothing else FELT. It only felt sick and sad and scary and sorrowful, if it ever did feel. I wanted comfort. 

16 years old, March 2014. I had a massive panic attack backstage at intermission during a performance. They called 911 because I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I was terrified. I thought I might die. But I fought. I kept going. I wasn't worth their time or energy, I had to get up off the ground and keep functioning. But my body wouldn't let me. I was so afraid. 

16 years old. August 2014. Junior year. Sobbing and shaking, I threw myself to the ground, moaning in distress. The news that my choir director had tragically died that morning had just come to me and I was thrown into a blackness unlike anything I have ever experienced. I disappeared inside of myself. It was the end for me. 

17 years old. May 2015. I had had enough. I wasn't good enough for anyone, least of all myself. Running my hand over the blade, I took a deep breath before plunging it into my shoulder. Sawing at my skin, leaving gouges, trying to draw blood. Stabbing myself repeatedly, needing to punish myself.  

I wasn't good. I wasn't loved. I was alone. 

17 years old. August 2015. Broken. Cynical. Jesus hadn't helped me. Oh, I believed in him alright. But he wasn't there for me. I was alone. I didn't think he loved me. I didn't love myself. I wasn't worth loving. I was dirty. I was hurting. I was afraid. And everything was so dark. There wasn't much hope. I wasn't worth anyone's extra time. 

The one thing that brought me an outlet of joy was acting. Theater. And I loved it so much. 

A local church had performed some stunning plays over the past few years and this year, I wanted in. I didn't care what the show was. I didn't care what I had to do to make it work. I would do anything. Whatever it took. I was starving to be a part of that group. 

I walked in for the audition. And felt love. Felt it. Palpably. I was overwhelmed by that sense. I didn't deserve it. I was no one. But I felt love in that place. 

I was quiet and shy, unless I was acting for the panel. And yet people were reaching for me. Strangers I had never met welcomed me. People I didn't know smiled and told me I was talented. 

I was given a part in the production. I was only in the ensemble, but I didn't care. I was in. I was hungry to be a part of that team of people who had something I didn't have. They had Someone I didn't know. And they were so filled with love it was impossible to avoid it. 

As the rehearsals progressed, I began to understand that the Someone they had was Jesus. They were in love with him. He was in them and through them and with them. I felt it. 

But I was pushing it away. I didn't deserve that. I was dirty. I was worthless. I cut. No one would want me if they knew those things about me that I would never reveal to a soul. 

The production approached. It was tech week. Something was going on inside of me. I was coming to grips with whatever it was and I didn't know what to do. But I was starting to let go of some big hurt. 

Surrounded by these people who had loved me and showed me Jesus, I broke down. I had three panic attacks in a week. The emotions were going insane as I realized that they were still loving me. I felt like a wreck. Still pushing away the idea that God could love me. I was unlovable. 

These people kept loving me. Three or four in particular became constant sources of encouragement, support, hugs, prayers, reassuring words, and comfort. They felt led to pray over me. They loved me so hard and so well that I let them instead of pushing them back. They planted the seed in my heart that I was worth loving. That I was beautiful. That I was radiant. 

I started attending that church. I was so hungry to hear that I was worth it. In that place, I heard Jesus's love preached so loudly and so clearly that I could no longer deny myself Christ's sacrifice for me. His love for me. The fact that he treasured me. 

Slowly and with a lot of tears, my life began to change. I stopped cutting in February 2016 and shortly afterwards I stopped harming myself sexually as well. I pursued Jesus. I fought back against the very black depression and anxiety that still haunted me above all else. 

I allowed others to come alongside me and love me. I preached truth to myself. I reinforced in my mind that I was loved, that I was strong, and that Jesus loved me enough to die for. With counseling and therapy, and eventually medication, as well as spiritual encouragement from my new family at church, I began to heal radically. 

My depression stopped haunting me and my anxiety stopped controlling me. My family relationships began to heal and be restored in ways that I never thought possible. I was experiencing what it's like to be redeemed. Bought back. Pursued. The Gospel made sense now, after all these years. 

And this leads me to where I am now. I have an incredibly deep relationship with the Jesus I never knew. He is my Shepherd. My Leader. My Healer. My King. He is the lover of my soul. I have now fully surrendered my life to my Jesus. He is in control of every aspect of my life and I trust him fully to keep me in his care, no matter what may come. 

By no means am I perfect. I am a sinner. But Jesus gives me strength. Love. Hope. Joy. I know I am beautiful and radiant, because he has taken away my shame and given me back my innocence. I am worth it to him. I am a victorious light in a dark and broken world, and I am living proof that anyone can change with the love of Christ. 

I want to live the rest of my life for the Jesus I love and serve with a willing heart. I am ready and willing for anything he calls me to, and I will spend my time pursuing him, talking with him, reading his love letter to me. He is precious to me. 

He changed my life. He can change yours. 

This is my story. Soli Deo Gloria Aeternam.