This morning, I was enjoying a book on vacation when I received a message on my phone.
“Hey, I think you have a great story to tell, at least portions of it! Please consider sharing your testimony on a Sunday morning.”
It was from my pastor, and it was generic enough that I knew I wasn't the only one who received it. Our church is in a series on “freedom,” and one person is sharing a piece of her or his story each Sunday. Friends have asked me if I was planning on sharing. I have said, “No. There's nothing I think I need to share. I'm glad other people are doing it.”
I stared at the message. I considered ignoring it or saying, “No thank you.” Instead, I checked to see how generic it was. “Do you have a particular portion in mind that you would like me to share?”
“Not really, areas we've already dealt with are still good, esp forgiveness & anger, but coming up are strongholds/rejection/insecurity/fear/shame/pride… to name a few.”
I wanted to say, “Thanks for narrowing it down for me…” But I didn't. I agreed to consider sharing.
Everything within me has been resisting this. I don't want to share my story. I even told my pastor and some friends, “I am sick of sharing my story.”
Reader, I am sick of sharing my story. I don't want to think of my story, of what the past holds, of what I was once stuck in, of what I am still not fully free from. I don't want people to respond to my story, to try to say the “right” thing, to think I need or even want a hug. I don't want to deal with any of it.
I stood face to face with my friend trying to explain why I didn't want to share. My eyes filled with tears as I understood and confessed, “I am pissed. I am pissed at this person who has hurt me. I am pissed that there hasn't been full redemption yet. I am pissed that healing happens in layers, and I don't want to stand in front of people and talk about it when my story still hurts.”
A few tears fell, we chatted for a couple of minutes and headed to the beach.
The ocean gives me life. It's my place. For thinking, for existing, for dreaming. I love the ocean and struggle to leave it. So before we left the beach today, I walked out into the water to experience the waves, to feel the salt, to soak in the ocean.
It was a windy day. The waves were harsh. Harsher than the picture demonstrates, but you don't have a person being smacked by the waves to demonstrate that, so just trust me here.
Slam! Deep breath. Regain grounding. Slam!
Repeat.
The waves kept coming - a few stronger and more intimidating than the others. Yet I couldn't leave. I needed the waves. I needed to be lost in the rhythm of the ocean. When I was struggling to put words to what my brain was working through, the ocean helped.
My story follows the rhythm of the ocean. Waves. Predictable cycles washing toward me. Because these wounds are too deep to be fully healed in one move. A wave of hurt hits, and there's space to deal with it as slowly as I need to. Because there is healing. I have not been abandoned in this. God is continually healing the hurt child within me. God is continually healing the adult me. There will be fullness of redemption.
The last wave of hurt was an intimidating one towering over me, knocking me off my feet, spinning me under the current. It caught me off-guard. I’m trying to regain my footing, to find my words to express my hurt. And it's hard to want to share any piece of my story from this place. Even the old healed pieces now feel raw. And the salty waves add to the pain.
Yet here I am: invited to stand before my people and acknowledge that I was not left in all that pain, that even in the wounds, my God is good and faithful; invited to continue to hope for more healing of layers, escape from the intense waves, fullness of redemption.
And so I’ll share more portions of my story - there and with others who deserve to hear it. I just have to find the words first. And I'm trusting that the ocean’s waves will help me with that this week.
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