In college, I was pretty messed up emotionally. Still scarred from things in my childhood, I was a walking trainwreck. I’d cry often–full force. Sobs defined me.

I had friends who told me that 2 Corinthians 5:17 about everything being new in Christ was mine to claim, that grieving the past was unnecessary. After all, Jesus took it all on the cross anyway. For me to grieve so much meant I lacked faith, or didn’t claim the promises He so freely offered.

And yet, God brought me to a group of friends who believed differently. They believed God would heal the emotional scars. They believed He would do a work in my heart. So they prayed for me. A lot. They prayed me through college, so that I came out on the other end much more joyful, much more assured of myself, much more healed.

What does this have to do with writing? Quite a bit, actually.

For years and years, I was an overproclaimer. I was one of those uncomfortable, wounded people no one wants to be around. I’d share my heartache with anyone who’d listen. But after college, I felt like God had done a miraculous work in my heart. I stopped sharing about the past. I stopped “going there.”

The last thing I ever thought I would do would be to write about God’s journey of healing.

So, for many years, I kept silent. And believed the healing was complete.

Until I had children.

Old wounds opened up then, causing me to re-evaluate. I had to come to grips with the fact that God is in the act of healing us over a lifetime. It’s seldom a one-time event. More dear friends prayed for me. I went to counseling. And God did a further work in my heart. But it would be a long time before I could write about those things.