As I sat around the table with 7 other ladies, each one of us held a pen and a crisp sheet of white tracing paper. The instruction was to write down all our hurts, griefs, and sins. Boxes of tissue were scattered throughout the room for “such a time as this.” This was our 6th meeting all in consecutive weeks. Welding my pen I wondered what would come out. Some thoughts and feelings felt familiar to list since I have thought a great deal about them while others were surprising, almost revelatory in a sense. Some didn’t feel so deeply painful anymore but a few caught me again. As I gazed at the list I had just finished I contemplated how long I had held onto my grief in seasons past. If it wasn’t for the intense two years of trauma therapy I would still be spiraling, believing I was losing a part of myself to let go. You see trauma defined me only a few short years ago. It was my identity as they say. The pain had so taken a hold of me that I was unable to move forward. I told myself that holding on was the only way I could preserve all that I had lost. I didn’t want to forget what had happened, it had changed who I was entirely.

Scattered around the room I could hear each pen moving, word upon word, line after line, hurt upon hurt. Tears flowed. I sat there slightly shocked at the enormous amounts of pain these ladies have walked through. I feel instantly less alone. I look down at my own list, the page 1/2 of the way filled up. Pain upon pain- line after line. I gaze at the corner of the room. There a wooden cross 3 feet tall with nails hammered into it stands ready. A basin of water rests at its base. “When you are ready,” She says, “you can take your tracing paper and place it into the water.” One lady courageously decides to be first. I feel a strange resistance. “Why?” I ask myself. She lingers at the cross. Two more ladies decide to lay their burdens down in the water. Each lingers. Emotional static has filled the room. I feel steadier now. I make my move. As I squat by the water I go blank, as I stare at all the squiggly letters that have slid off that slippery tracing paper. Into the water they have gone, dissolving. I have in my hand years of pain and hurt. All I can think is, “He knows all the hurts and pains I’ve experienced.” “He’s keenly aware of my suffering.” “He knows it all.” Reluctantly I slip my paper into the water. I watch captivated as the paper shrivels and my words slowly meld into little squiggles joining the rest. The rest. I look up at the cross. I turn to go and then suddenly turn back. I need time. I think of the suffering my Lord experienced for me. Just to make this moment possible. Truly. I feel the pain of my sins, written on that paper now resting. “Take it.” I say. I feel inexplicably drawn, something shifting within me. A transference. An opening. A light. The twisted emotional pain like Someone is taking the edge off it. I sigh.

The rain pours down on the roof over our little meeting room. It’s heaviness creating a sanctuary in my mind. I think back to my Bible study in the morning. Psalm 18:1-2 “I WILL love you, O LORD, my strength . The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer; My God my strength, in whom I will trust; my shield and the horn of my salvation.” This is an exuberant adoration from a man who just experienced victory over his enemies and the man who has sought him harm. This kind of worship has felt foreign to me for a long time. This morning my heart was more in a posture of Psalm 42:11 and “Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me?” I hear echo in my mind what I shared only a few weeks earlier with one of the group ladies, “I just wonder when I will catch a break. It feels like trial after trial have hit me.” I overheard another lady sharing that same sentiment. Maybe I’m not alone.

What I’m learning is that trials are like dark rain clouds that cover the Son. This rain makes windshields, landscapes, and eyes blur like a haze. What was once clear and bright, like worship, now feels broken and hard. I silently compared myself to David’s jubilation today wondering, “What’s wrong with me?” I feel condemned that my praise is not resounding. I see in my mind’s eye a God who is sternly awaiting worship. Isn’t that what I’m made for?? The chief end of man and all. What does that quote by the theologian John Piper actually say? “The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever,…” Sounds a lot different to me now. A tenderness comes over God’s seemingly stern face. I take a deep breath. Enjoy? I can’t say I’ve been enjoying God. Sounds a lot more like a frolic at a beautiful park together than this pitiful servitude that I’ve been imagining. How much of my relationship with God has been this self made religion stuff. A list of dos and don’ts and a whole lot of expectation. A constant sense of failure and burden. No one can thrive under that pressure. It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Galatians 5:1

I have been striving for so long, do I know how to be free? My mind once again senses that condemnation coming back. “I don’t know how to do it,” is my current thought. Burden put back on my shoulders. I tasted a piece of that freedom as I laid my paper down in its watery grave. A smile washes over my face. Something IS shifting. My heart is opening to receive the love and joy He has died for. Just now one of the ladies brushes her warm hand over my arm as she walks past, I felt it. Another one, with cheeks still damp from heavy tears pulls me into the warmest embrace and whispers like an angel, “I’m so sorry for your pain.” Inexplicable healing rushes in. The image of God is now a man with tears running down His face and pure compassion in His eyes. He pulls me in tight and shows me His scars. “For you,” He whispers. My fingers trace the wounds. We share intimately like we never have. All my life I’ve longed for a friend like David had in Jonathan. My eyes are opening wide. He’s not a sterile God aloof to my pain, deaf to my cries, absent in times of crisis. “One small step…” I overhear a sister whisper to another. “This is just one small step.” My heart is comforted, that’s all He’s asking of me. His yoke is easy and his burden is light” (Matthew 11:30)

Will You Open Up Your Eyes

Chorus

Will you open up your eyes
To let the Savior enter in
To shine all around
To crash your fears to the ground

Will you open up your eyes
to see the web that’s holding tight
will you open up your eyes
to see the Savior who died
1x
Will you open up your eyes
to see Him sitting on the throne
His arms opened wide
look at compassion in His eyes

Won’t you let Him enter in
allow His light to shine in you
so you can see the world
as He wants you to

1xslower-
He’s now sitting on the throne
waitin for His children to come home
still His arms are open wide
look at compassion in His eyes