The Story of Me

Preface

I can't breathe.

Something is squeezing my heart in a death grip, preparing to rip it right out of me. It's sitting on my chest, laughing in my face—it knows no mercy.

If I don't do something right now, I won't survive another second.

The road blurs before my tear-filled eyes as I turn onto the gravel drive in front of the old, faded white church. I slam to a halt, fumbling to unlock the doors of the beat-up brown van trapping me inside. Just like my heart, my fingers have ceased to function.

A sob builds up inside me, from the tips of my toes—it travels up, up, up, suffocating me, until finally, the door gives way and I stumble out of the car. My lungs fight one another for oxygen and the fresh scent of roses invades me, frantically seeking to bring an end to the anxiety and fear cemented around my heart.

A big oak tree, which has been my refuge throughout much of my life, towers in front of me. It stands tall and proud, its roots so deep and strong that nothing could ever shake it. To the church, it is a stronghold against wind, rain, snow. But to me, it is a stronghold against the world: against pain and grief and fear—against darkness. To me, the oak is the steadfastness of a father, the love of a mother, the comfort of a friend. It is my home. Tenderly, the oak stretches out its worn, aged branches toward the mess of a girl standing before it.

It calls to me and I fall to my knees beneath it, seeking comfort but—for once—finding nothing. The sob finally escapes me in a release of fear and anger and hopelessness. I clench my eyes shut as oceans of tears roll down my cheeks and I am instantly bombarded by the memories I've been running from day and night.

They lurk in the background of my mind, pulling my soul into a never ending darkness. There, misery and shame and hopelessness are the only ones who keep me company.

A tear slips from my eye as I remember, as I feel his hands on my knees, my thighs, my neck, everywhere. There is no place left untouched, no place clean or pure. My mouth opens, prepared to scream or beg or say "No" more than I already have. But no sound escapes. I try to do something, anything, to make it stop but I'm frozen. I can't think or speak or move. My body, having long since given up, has betrayed me—instead of fighting or fleeing, it chooses to cower in fear, to wait until it's over to escape. In frantic rage, my mind screams at my body, WHY AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING? KICK OR SCREAM OR RUN, BUT DON'T JUST LAY THERE.

Eventually, the screams in my head turn into broken sobs and wails until there is nothing left inside me. My mind and body are both left trembling and broken. They scramble to gather the scattered pieces of my heart, my soul, my identity—but shame invades, and they retreat instead. The tears are choking me—I cannot do this.

My hands flitter over the thighs of a body that no longer feels as if it belongs to me, of a body that feels—is—dirty and used. More tears cascade from my eyes as my hands slowly make their way up to my chest, settling over the heart that's beating frantically inside of me.

Weary, my head falls back and I look up at the sky. Jesus, where are you? I need you. Please, I can't do this. Are you here? Can't you see I'm hurting and broken? Can't you see that my spirit is dying right before your eyes? I need you. Don't you hear me?

My soul cries out to a God who promised to be there, who I know is there, yet no answer ensues. And suddenly that's it. I'm done. I can't do it anymore.

I have no hope.

My body folds in on itself, my heartbeat slows almost to a stop, and breathing ceases to be of importance to me. In that moment, I cease to exist. I feel nothing. I am nothing. My soul is cold and dead. Lifeless.

But it doesn't end there. And then it happens.
And then the warm glow of the setting sun washes over me.

It's as sweet and thick and welcoming to my soul as honey is to my mouth. The rays reach out to me, shining light into the darkest corners of my heart. It covers me in love and mercy and faithfulness.

And then the aroma of the flowers wafts from the nearby field.

It fills my lungs with life. A sense of peace. I inhale the sweet scent, desperate for the tranquility it brings.

And then a gentle breeze wraps me in its cool embrace, surrounding me with the barely audible voice of the spirit.

You're not alone. Mija, I've been here the whole time.
The golden light of the sun wraps me in a cocoon of reassurance and the wind, ever so gently, dries the tears from my cheeks.

If ever the love of God could take form it would be then, in that unforgettable moment. His love and faithfulness were in the singing of the birds, the tickle of the grass against my knees, the sweet smell of the roses, and the magnificent beauty of the blooming trees in the orchard before me. I felt his presence and grace in the life existing all around me. I knew then, without a doubt, that I was living loved.

A joyful laugh flutters from my lips as I lay down on my back, admiring the work of the Lord in the beauty all around me. Slowly, I let my eyes slide shut, my mind instantly erupting with memories. I almost open my eyes, ready to go back to pushing the hurt and pain and fear back down. But the breeze kisses my cheeks and I remember that I'm not walking through this alone.

I open my eyes and gaze at the vibrant colors of the sunset peeking behind the oak tree's branches and am reminded of where I am. Blue, purple, orange—the hues of the sky come into focus, and a sense of peace overwhelms me. The sight before my eyes is the most beautiful I have ever seen. God, thank you for this beautiful masterpiece you have created.
A soft voice assures my soul: Mija, you are more beautiful and magnificent than this. Your identity and worth are in me, not in what has happened to you. The truth resounds within the deepest, hidden parts of me and reassurance floods my thoughts.

Memories still assault me every time I close my eyes, but the faithfulness of Jesus keeps me grounded. He reminds me of where I am and who is on my side, giving me the strength to run with perseverance the race that is life. He holds my hand when I'm sliding down life's slippery, dangerous slopes, with no way for me to stop the impact. There is never a moment that He is not with me. He is always leading in front of me, guarding my back behind me, and providing comfort by my side. He carries me when I am too weary to carry myself. His love is more beautiful than anything I can imagine, and his peace is more unexplainable than I can ever possibly fathom.

With a sigh of contentment, I get up from the soft grass. I walk back to my minivan, my steps filled with a new strength. I take one last look at the church and smile.

And then, I find hope.