Seven years ago, our daughter experienced a trauma that shook our lives. Trauma is different from grief. I am not an expert, and I will not attempt an explanation of the difference here, except to say that trauma is deeply crippling and requires more than simply allowing ourselves to feel the pain. It is pain on a soul-shattering level, pain that almost cannot be tolerated. In the year following that trauma, our daughter floundered.
She could not handle the pain. She could not even talk about what had happened or say the names of those involved. She began hurting herself. She shuttered the pain away, hoping it would somehow disappear, but of course it didn’t. Ultimately, it led her to a place of deep depression and despair. She had turned her back on God, and she no longer wanted to live.
Words cannot adequately describe the agony of that season. The exhaustion of constant vigilance. The fear of what might happen when I wasn’t looking. The terrible ache of a reality I never thought would be mine. The not knowing how—if—we would survive.
In the midst of that season, during my time with Jesus one morning, I tried to talk to him about my pain. I hardly had words, but I knew he knew. He comprehended my grief; he heard the ache of my heart; he joined in my weeping. I felt his nearness, even as I stared down the possibility of my worst nightmare. I knew that even if the worst happened, he would be with me. He was strong enough to get me through, to bring me out the other side.
I was in a literal valley of the shadow of death, and it felt like death’s shadow was at the door. Yet as I became aware of his strength with and for me, I heard him whisper so clearly, “I am putting her on the fast track to freedom.” In that moment, those words felt almost unbelievable. I couldn’t see how it was possible. But it was what my heart desperately wanted.
I don’t think I said anything in response. But I took his words into my heart, and I accepted them. I knew I could not listen to the voices of pain or fear or doubt. I had to hold on. I had to believe. That was what I chose, and I had to choose it every day. I did not feel it. I’m not sure I even fully believed it, in the sense of being absolutely convinced it would happen. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I didn’t know exactly what that freedom would look like, and I chose to entrust it to Jesus without trying to define it. And of course, I realized my daughter had a part to play. She needed to say yes to him, too.
But knowing all that, I accepted his words, and chose to simply say yes to them with no qualifications. That season was such that I hardly knew how to pray, and his promise became my one prayer. “I thank you, God, that you are putting her on the fast track to freedom.” Over and over, I declared it.
And God did what he promised. Within six months of hearing his whisper, I saw our daughter radically transformed. It was noticeable and remarkable. It was miraculous. Of course, she continues on her journey of healing, but now she is able to face the pain and walk toward healing in partnership with God, her therapist, and us. The outworking of God’s promise has been astonishing, the change in her life breathtaking. She is living fully alive, fully in love.
I am so thankful for God’s goodness and that he gave me the grace to believe. If I had believed God allowed (or even caused) that trauma, I would not have known how to face my own pain, let alone walk with my daughter in hers. God is not the God of trauma, but he is the God in the trauma. He sits with us in it, and he guides us through.
For more on this, check out my book, The Way Back to Hope.
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