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A week ago, along side the Kingdom Journeys women, we led a "Beauty for Ashes" healing retreat. This involved a lot of chocolate, flowers, and glittery confetti, (which I am, to this day, finding stuck to my arms and legs). To begin, we surprised the girls with a flash mob style dance, which they responded to with laughing and cheering. Then, we performed a cheesy play complete with dorky costumes. Our play lead to a time where Chelsea taught everyone about identity. She had such great insight and many of us were breaking out our new journals to take notes.
On a more serious note, we lead an exercise that would help everyone tell part of their story. I didn't realize how powerful crayons and sketch paper could still be in adult life until we gave a room full of women the opportunity to use them. We asked everyone to take some time to draw a picture of a time they felt pain. To demonstate the exercise, I shared a drawing I had done the night before. I chose a time in my life when my father was taking care of my sick mother and I felt like no one was there to look after me. (This in no way reflects on my parents character, only the situation) I felt very depressed and alone, unable to share my distress with anyone. My hope was that some of the women would be able to relate and this would open a dialogue. What I didn't anticipate was, I would burst into tears while sharing my story. I think that some of my story may have been lost in translation, but the emotions that I felt were not.
After my story, everyone set about to create their own drawings. About 20 minutes and a couple bags of M&M's later, we began to share our drawings in small groups. To my surprise, some of the girls were eager to share, even to speak first. The first drawing shared was of a jagged "X" that separated several groups of people. This wonderful friend of mine spoke about her family that at one time was happy with all of her brothers and sisters piled into one home. Then, her parents split and it caused the family to divide as they had to figure out where they would live and how they would survive without the father providing for the family. In the midst of the family fighting about who's fault this all was, she was abused continually by a family member.
During this story, I saw other girls in the group with tears welling up in their eyes. They began to tell her their stories are the same. Even their drawings were similar with and "X" or a division separating the family. A light began to shed on the lie that we are alone. The lie of shame also began to crumble as we each heard others we respect tell their similar story with vulnerability. There is a release in the discovery that we don't have to walk out pain alone. By the end of sharing, we were even laughing in the freedom we were feeling.
In the nights since, we have met and found new depths to walk with each other. For me, this deepens my faith in the power of a testimony and the promise that we will overcome by what Jesus did and our testimony.
