Looking back now, I feel like someone who accidentally started a journey with nothing but a beat-up backpack and a whole lot of doubt. Some days, I was just putting one foot in front of the other, wondering if I was even on the right path. My heart was a compass that kept spinning, pointing everywhere and nowhere. And somehow, through all of that stumbling and searching, I found myself here—a trauma healing facilitator—a volunteer role that feels less like an obligation and more like a calling I didn't know I was waiting for. This journey unraveled everything I thought I knew about healing, community, and God.
At the beginning of all of this, I believed I was already healed. I thought I had processed my pain. I thought I was a good judge of character and could oftentimes see beyond the wounds of others. Yet this journey revealed how limited my understanding truly was. It required me to look deeper, to confront the parts of myself I had carefully hidden away—the scars I had accepted as permanent.
It forced me to reexamine my understanding of God. I realized how often I had confined divine grace to the narrow boundaries of my own beliefs, instead of embracing a God who is infinitely more compassionate and understanding than my limited perspective could ever comprehend. Healing, I learned, isn't about fixing yourself or others—it's about discovering a profound connection with a God-given grace that knows no boundaries, from an unconditionally loving Father who holds no records of wrongs.
When I finally said "yes" to this calling—albeit in a whisper—I witnessed something extraordinary: the formation of a true community. People came, vulnerable and broken, and together bore one another's burdens with tenderness and compassion. This community became a living testament to healing—a safe space where brokenness was not something to be hidden, but a shared journey of transformation. There was no judgment, no advice—just an echo of the Holy Spirit as He led each of us to personal encounters with a loving, healing God. In holding space for others to share their stories, I've found ongoing healing in my own life. Every narrative became more than a story of pain; it is a testament to God's unfailing love, grace, and mercy.
I am reminded of the story of the ten lepers in Luke 17:11-19. Jesus healed all ten of them, but there was one man who turned around and went back to encounter Jesus. That one man didn't just receive healing; he experienced wholeness—restoration. Complete restoration, as if his body had never been damaged by disease. Jesus said to him, "Rise and go; your faith has made you whole." And that, my friend, is my God! That is His heart's posture for all of us—not to live with scars from our pain but to be restored to a place where the damage no longer defines us. No longer influences how we speak, how we view the world, how we love others, or how we love ourselves.
To those considering this path, know this: you don't need to be perfect. You simply need to be willing. Willing to listen. Willing to sit with brokenness not as a sign of weakness, but as a signpost pointing to something deeper. Recognize that every wounded story carries within it the seed for transformation. And our greatest strength lies not in avoiding pain, but in our ability to walk through it with compassion and an unwavering belief in God's ability to restore.
Every day, I am grateful for this unexpected path—a journey that continues to reshape my understanding of healing, faith, and the incredible resilience of the human spirit. But most importantly, it has deepened my discovery and rediscovery of a Father who says I am meant to be whole.
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