To the Woman Processing Trauma
Before the world showed you it wasn’t kind, before the panic lodged in your lungs, before you knew that "dust to dust " wasn’t just a nod to mortality, but to dreams, and trust, and dreams of trust—before those days, you’d kneel at the window and sing to Him. The screen and streetlights blurred the stars, but not the brilliance of the One you worshiped. Your worship was untested, yet true and tender.
“I know the plans I have for you” wasn't seasoned with context or questioning; exile was yet unread, unlived.
When it happened, the it that splits before and after, that demarcates the border of a woman whole and a woman broken—when it happened, He saved you out of it. You can’t deny the miracle — His rescue was glorious and fierce.
Your testimony resounds, the hungry travelers flock to your words of the God who sees and saves, and they are filled.
But on lonely nights when you stare at the ceiling and the clock ticks its eternal seconds, you weep. Your body trembles with memory.
The Lord joined the exiles in the fire, the faithful ones who didn’t bow to safety. The Lord saved the exiles from the fire, a moment of majesty, a glimpse of reality.
But months later, when adrenaline had died and the miracle had settled, did Mishael wake at three a.m. night after night, the furnace’s jaws taunting him in dreams?
Did lighting a lamp steal Hananiah’s breath and jolt his heart as his body remembered being bound and carried toward angry heat?
Did Azariah struggle to rise from bed? Did darkness weigh on his chest as flashbacks looped the minutes of terror?
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
They couldn’t deny the miracle or the goodness of their God, but they were human like us, fragile vessels filled with treasure, but cracked and marred, longing to be made whole.
Dear sister, fellow exile, the fire changed your earthly frame. Your skin wasn't singed, but the scars remain. Others only see the miracle — they think you should beam with constant joy.
But the One who worked the miracle sees it all.
He sees you, right now, trembling in memory, longing to be the woman you were before. He is with you, He understands what they don't, that your healing is a walk toward heaven in feeble faith as you grip His hand for dear life.
He understands what you don’t, how the glory He’s planned will heal and restore when He brings you from exile into His kingdom where you will be made whole, forever whole.
