Fruit After The Fire

Fruit After The Fire

When the End Is Not an Ending

Well, folks, if you have made it this far, you already know something important: you do not finish a journey like this unchanged. Books, like lives, have beginnings and endings, but the truth is that endings are rarely about closure alone. More often, they are thresholds. They are doors disguised as walls. They are God’s quiet way of saying, Now watch what I can do with what you thought was finished.

This final reflection is not a victory lap, nor is it a tidy bow tied around a messy story. It is, instead, a witness. A witness to what happens when small, costly, obedient choices are made not for applause, not for approval, but simply to remain faithful to Jesus when the ground beneath you feels unstable.

Recently, a significant chapter of my life came to an end. After much prayer, wrestling, and long nights of reflection, I made the difficult decision to leave a church community that had once been home. That decision was not made lightly, nor was it made in anger. It came after a season of testing that required more endurance than I thought I had. But this reflection is not about that departure. It is not about buildings, leadership structures, or church culture. Those details, while real, are not the point.

The point is what came after obedience.

For much of my life, personal growth meant learning how to survive quietly. I learned how to adapt. I learned how to stay agreeable. I learned how to endure discomfort with a smile, believing that silence was the price of faithfulness. Somewhere along the way, I confused humility with disappearance. I mistook endurance for compliance. And I believed—wrongly—that having a voice was somehow a threat to unity rather than a gift to the body.

But growth has a way of confronting our misunderstandings.

There came a moment—slow in arrival but sudden in clarity—when I realized that my voice mattered. Not because it was loud. Not because it demanded agreement. But because it was honest. And honesty, when anchored in Christ, is never rebellion. It is obedience.

I no longer believed that silence was holy when it produced inner death. I no longer believed that enduring harm without truth was Christlike. Jesus did not remain silent when silence distorted the heart of God. He spoke with clarity, love, and authority—sometimes gently, sometimes directly—but always truthfully.

And so I began to speak.

Not recklessly. Not defensively. But faithfully.

What followed was something I did not expect.

Healing came quickly.

That sentence still catches me off guard when I write it. Healing—real healing—within my small family came far faster than I had dared to hope. For years, I had prayed for change. I had hoped for restoration. But if I am honest, I had quietly accepted the status quo. I believed healing would be slow, incremental, and maybe incomplete. I believed we would learn to manage wounds rather than see them fully addressed.

But God had other plans.

What I began to see was not merely emotional improvement, but spiritual release. Patterns that had existed for generations began to lose their grip. Conversations changed. Tone shifted. Support replaced pressure. Love became explicit rather than implied.

Scripture tells us, “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (John 8:36, NIV). I had read those words many times, but now I was watching them unfold in real time.

Intergenerational burdens—those invisible expectations passed quietly from parent to child—were being dismantled.

For much of my life, my dad carried a weight that was never meant to be his alone. He felt responsible to uphold an unspoken code of conduct—a version of faith shaped more by group expectations than by the written Word. It was not announced from a pulpit, yet it was loudly enforced through tone, posture, and non-verbal compliance. And without malice, he passed that burden to me.

When I struggled, his instinct was not cruelty but caution. He encouraged compliance. Keep the peace. Don’t rock the boat. Follow the pattern. Yet each time I did, something inside me diminished. Obedience without conviction became a slow erosion of joy.

Then something remarkable happened.

Almost in a single breath, that pattern broke.

Where there had once been pressure, there was now verbal support. Where there had been caution, there was now affirmation. My dad shifted from encouraging conformity to encouraging faithfulness—faithfulness not to a subculture, but to Scripture itself.

“Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1, NIV).

Those words moved from theory to practice.

And the ripple effect was immediate.

When Curses Break and Joy Returns

There is a truth we rarely say out loud because it feels too mystical, too weighty, or too confrontational: what walks in your life often runs in the lives of your children. Patterns left unchallenged do not remain neutral. They gain speed. Fear becomes anxiety. Silence becomes distance. Compliance becomes resentment.

But the opposite is also true.

When a generational curse is broken, freedom does not trickle—it rushes.

As the burden lifted between my dad and me, something else began to shift: my relationships with my children and grandchildren. During a previous season of struggle, my availability had diminished. I was present, but not fully. Time existed, but energy was thin. Love was there, but it was constrained by exhaustion and inner conflict.

Now, something has changed.

The frequency of time together has increased—but more importantly, the quality of that time has transformed. Conversations are lighter. Laughter is louder. Joy feels unchecked. There is a richness now that goes beyond obligation or routine. It feels like heaven brushing against earth.

To hear sincere, unfiltered laughter from your children—laughter not filtered through stress or survival—is a gift that cannot be manufactured. It can only be received.

"The joy of the Lord is your strength" (Nehemiah 8:10, NIV).

For years, I read that verse as encouragement to endure hardship. Now I read it as a description. Joy is no longer something I must summon; it is something that arrives naturally when burdens are removed.

I trace this directly back to the breaking of an intergenerational pattern. Once the curse stopped walking in my life, it no longer ran in theirs. Freedom multiplied.

Serving Jesus now feels different. Lighter. Clearer. More honest.

The reward for obedience in this season was not delayed. It was immediate.

That does not mean the road was short. The season of testing was long. The cost was real. There were moments when endurance felt indistinguishable from defeat. I often related deeply to Job—not because I believed myself righteous, but because I understood confusion.

Job’s story is unsettling because it refuses tidy explanations. Yet buried within it is a promise that remains alive today: God does not waste suffering.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose" (Romans 8:28, NIV).

At the time, I did not believe that promise applied to my situation. The accusations were loud. The confusion was heavy. The spiritual weight of being falsely accused—especially within the house of God—cuts deeper than most wounds. Words spoken in those spaces carry unusual power. They echo. They linger.

For the first time in my life, instead of retreating into silence, I prayed for the strength to address the accusation directly. Not to defend myself aggressively, but to stand in truth. That prayer marked a turning point.

What I did not realize then was that in confronting the lie, a curse was being broken—not just in me, but in my family line. Silence had been the pattern. Endurance without truth had been the norm. But in that moment, something shifted.

"For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love and self-discipline" (2 Timothy 1:7, NIV).

Power replaced paralysis. Love replaced resentment. Discipline replaced avoidance.

And the fruit appeared quickly.

Quiet Rooms and Sacred Gratitude

As I write these final words of this entry, the house is still. The kind of stillness that feels earned. The kind that arrives after storms have passed and questions no longer demand immediate answers.

My adult son is sleeping peacefully in his old room. The same room that once held childhood dreams, late-night conversations, and growing pains. He chose to stay a little longer. Not out of need, but out of desire. To be together. To share time that is no longer rushed or strained.

That simple image carries more weight than I can fully express.

There were seasons when I wondered if this kind of closeness would ever return. Seasons when regret whispered that opportunities had passed. Seasons when faith felt more like survival than hope.

Yet here we are.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18, NIV).

I am overwhelmed not by what was lost, but by what has been restored.

Healing did not come because I worked harder. It came because I stepped out of comfort and into obedience. I chose truth over silence. Faith over fear. Scripture over subculture.

Once that dam broke, grace rushed in.

The reward was not fame. It was peace. The reward was not validation. It was a connection. The reward was not being proven right. It was being made free.

I write these words with tears and gratitude. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for meeting me in endurance. Thank you for using what felt like injustice to bring about freedom. Thank you for restoring relationships I quietly feared were beyond repair.

If these words reach even one of Your children who feels exhausted, accused, or on the edge of giving up, may they serve as a gentle reminder: endurance is not wasted. Faith is not ignored. Truth spoken in love always bears fruit.

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up" (Galatians 6:9, NIV).

Tonight, that harvest feels tangible.

A quiet house. A peaceful room. A restored heart.

This is not the end of the story.

It is the evidence that God is faithful—still working, still healing, still bringing life where we least expected it.

Tattoos and Trauma

Tattoos and Trauma

Seen Wounds, Unseen Scars, and the Quiet Judgments We Carry

There is a moment most of us have experienced but rarely name.

You’re walking down the street, through a grocery store, past a coffee shop, or into a restaurant. Someone passes by you — arms covered in tattoos, neck inked, stories written on skin in bold, unapologetic strokes. And before a single word is spoken, something subtle happens inside.

A thought forms.

A feeling.

An assumption.

Not always cruel. Not always intentional. But present.

They must have been through a lot.
They must carry trauma.
Their past must be heavy.

I’ve noticed it — not just in the world, but in myself. And even more uncomfortably, I’ve felt it in small Christian circles where love is preached loudly, yet judgment sometimes whispers quietly.

If you’ve felt that moment before, you know exactly what I mean. And if you’ve been the one on the receiving end of that look — the pause, the guarded glance, the unspoken conclusion — let me say this clearly, plainly, and without defensiveness:

I’m sorry you felt judged by your appearance.

No asterisks. No theological qualifiers. Just sorrow that the church, at times, reflects fear faster than compassion.

Yet here is where the conversation becomes complicated — and honest.

Because while judgment is wrong, discernment is not the same thing. And there is often truth tangled inside the assumption. Not condemnation — but context.

Many people who wear their pain visibly are not trying to shock the world. They’re trying to survive it.

I recently spoke with someone whose body told a story long before their mouth ever did. Tattoos layered upon tattoos, each one intentional. When I asked why — not accusing, just curious — their answer was quiet, raw, and devastatingly human.

“I was hurt so badly by people in my past that I didn’t want anyone new to come close. The tattoos became a kind of shield. If they stay away, they can’t hurt me.”

A metaphorical force field.

A warning sign.

A boundary drawn in ink instead of words.

And suddenly the tattoos weren’t rebellion — they were armour.

The Bible understands armour.

Paul writes in Ephesians 6 about the armour of God, not as a costume, but as protection in a world that wounds (Ephesians 6:11–17, NIV). Yet when people don’t know God — or don’t yet trust Him — they build their own armor. Some do it with sarcasm. Some with withdrawal. Some with control. And some with ink.

The difference is not whether we armour ourselves — it’s how.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth we rarely say out loud in church:

Everyone has trauma.
Not everyone displays it.

Some wear it on their skin.
Others carry it in their chest.
Some bury it so deep they forget its name — but it still whispers at night.

Jesus understood this better than anyone.

Isaiah describes Him as “a man of suffering, and familiar with pain” (Isaiah 53:3, NIV). Familiar — not distant. Not theoretical. He didn’t just observe pain; He lived inside it.

And yet somehow, we’ve created an environment where visible pain is treated as suspicious, while hidden pain is praised as maturity.

We call emotional suppression “strength.”
We call silence “faith.”
We call unprocessed wounds “being put together.”

But Scripture never does.

David didn’t hide his pain — he wrote it into psalms.
Jeremiah didn’t mask his grief — he wept publicly.
Job didn’t swallow his questions — he shouted them into the heavens.

And God did not reject them for asking why.

Which brings me to the question that sits beneath tattoos, beneath trauma, beneath judgment, beneath even theology itself:

Why?

Why does an all-loving Creator allow a world where children are hurt?
Why does pain seem generational — inherited like a curse we didn’t sign up for?
Why does it sometimes feel like God is silent while trauma screams?

If God is a loving Father — and Scripture says He is (Psalm 103:13, NIV) — then why doesn’t the world feel safer?

A good father protects his children.
A good father intervenes.
A good father doesn’t watch silently while harm unfolds.

And yet… here we are.

A world filled with scars.

This tension is not new.

It began in a garden.

Adam and Eve didn’t just disobey — they fractured intimacy. When sin entered the world, it didn’t arrive politely. It brought fear, shame, blame, and separation (Genesis 3, NIV). And from that moment on, trauma became part of the human inheritance.

Cain kills Abel.
Families fracture.
Violence multiplies.
Death follows us like a shadow.

Romans 5:12 says, “Sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all people” (NIV).

That verse is often quoted clinically — but lived painfully.

Because if we’re honest, it sometimes feels unfair.

Why should I carry wounds I didn’t create?
Why am I paying for choices made generations before me?
Why does God allow free will to do so much damage?

Some explain it as free will — and they’re not wrong. God did not create robots. Love requires choice. And choice carries consequence.

But even knowing that doesn’t always soothe the ache.

Sometimes, if we’re brave enough to admit it, it can feel darker.

Like we’re caught in a cosmic experiment.
Like angels fell, wars broke out, and somehow humanity became collateral damage.
Like heaven watches while earth bleeds.

That thought feels dangerous to say out loud — especially in church. But pretending it doesn’t cross our minds doesn’t make us faithful. It makes us dishonest.

And here’s the quiet grace we often miss:

God is not threatened by our questions.

He invites them.

Job questioned God — and God answered, not with condemnation, but with presence.
David questioned God — and God preserved his words as Scripture.
Even Jesus, on the cross, cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46, NIV).

If Jesus asked why, we are allowed to ask it too.

Childlike faith is not blind faith.

Jesus said, “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3, NIV).

Children ask why constantly — not because they doubt love, but because they trust relationship.

They ask because they believe answers are possible.

So maybe asking why is not rebellion — maybe it’s relational.

And maybe tattoos and trauma are simply one visible expression of a deeper human cry:

Does anyone see my pain?
Does anyone understand why I’m like this?
Does God still love me like this?

The tragedy is not that people wear their trauma differently.

The tragedy is that we judge one another’s coping instead of carrying one another’s burdens — something Scripture explicitly commands (Galatians 6:2, NIV).

Some people write their pain into journals.
Some into prayers.
Some into scars.
Some into skin.

Different methods. Same ache.

And if the church cannot hold space for that complexity — then we’ve missed the heart of Christ.

Because Jesus never recoiled from wounded people.

He moved toward them.

Tattoos and Trauma

Free Will, Fallen Worlds, and the God Who Does Not Look Away

If Part I asked what we see and how we judge, then Part II must ask the heavier question:

Why does God allow this at all?

Why does trauma exist so freely in a world created by love?
Why does pain repeat across generations like an echo that refuses to fade?
Why does free will seem to benefit the strong while crushing the vulnerable?

These questions are not abstract when you’ve lived long enough.

They show up when you hear someone’s story and realize the damage was done before they had language for it.
They surface when you recognize patterns in your own life that you didn’t consciously choose but somehow inherited.
They arise when you look at the world — wars, abuse, betrayal, abandonment — and wonder if “good” is winning at all.

And yet, Scripture never pretends this tension doesn’t exist.

The Bible does not sanitize reality. It names it.

Jesus Himself says, “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33, NIV).
Not might.
Not occasionally.
Will.

That verse alone dismantles the false promise that faith equals safety.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He continues, “But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

That word — overcome — is important. Because it implies conflict, not prevention.

God does not promise a pain-free world.
He promises presence within it.

And that distinction matters more than we like to admit.

Free Will: A Necessary Gift with a Terrible Cost

Free will is often used as a clean theological explanation, but it is anything but clean in practice.

God gave humanity the ability to choose — because love without choice is coercion. Forced obedience is not a relationship. Programmed loyalty is not devotion.

But free will means that people can choose harm.

And some do.

The Bible doesn’t shy away from this reality. From the first pages of Genesis, we see that sin doesn’t just affect the sinner — it spills outward. Adam and Eve’s choice fractures creation itself. Cain’s anger ends Abel’s life. Lamech boasts of violence. Entire civilizations spiral.

By the time we reach Genesis 6, God observes that “every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time” (Genesis 6:5, NIV).

This is not God being dramatic. It is God being honest.

Free will gave humanity dignity — but it also unleashed devastation.

And here’s the part that feels deeply unfair:

Those who suffer most are often the ones who choose nothing at all.

Children don’t choose abuse.
Infants don’t choose neglect.
Generations don’t choose inherited trauma.

So where is God in that?

This is where many people quietly walk away — not because they hate God, but because they cannot reconcile His goodness with their experience.

Yet Scripture tells us something profoundly important:

God does not stand outside suffering.
He steps into it.

The incarnation — God becoming flesh — is not a poetic idea. It is a declaration that God refuses to remain distant.

Jesus entered a violent world.
He was born under political oppression.
He experienced betrayal, abandonment, public humiliation, and physical torture.

Hebrews tells us, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses” (Hebrews 4:15, NIV).

Empathy requires proximity.

God did not answer suffering with distance.
He answered it with scars.

After the resurrection, Jesus still bore wounds. Thomas touched them. The trauma was not erased — it was transformed.

That matters for anyone who feels ashamed of visible scars — whether on skin, soul, or story.

Generational Trauma: Inherited Wounds, Not Inherited Guilt

One of the most misunderstood ideas in Scripture is generational consequence.

Exodus 20:5 speaks of consequences “to the third and fourth generation.” This verse has been used — and misused — to suggest that God punishes descendants for ancestors’ sins.

But Scripture itself corrects that interpretation.

Ezekiel 18:20 says clearly, “The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent” (NIV).

So what’s going on?

Consequence is not the same as punishment.

Trauma travels through families not because God assigns it, but because humans pass it down.

Unhealed pain reproduces itself.

A wounded parent raises a wounded child — not intentionally, but inevitably.
Silence teaches silence.
Anger teaches anger.
Fear teaches fear.

This is not divine cruelty — it is human brokenness.

And yet God repeatedly interrupts this cycle.

Throughout Scripture, God calls individuals out of damaged lineages and rewrites their stories.

Abraham came from an idol-worshiping family.
Moses was raised amid violence and fear.
David came from a fractured household.
Rahab came from exploitation.

None were disqualified.

In fact, God seems to specialize in working through damaged people — not despite their trauma, but often through it.

Which raises an uncomfortable thought:

What if trauma does not disqualify us from God’s purposes — but becomes the place where His redemption is most visible?

That doesn’t mean trauma is good.
It means God is greater.

Romans 8:20–21 says creation itself is “subjected to frustration,” yet with hope of restoration.

Hope does not deny the frustration.
It speaks in spite of it.

The Feeling That God Is Silent

Perhaps the hardest part of trauma is not the pain itself — but the silence that follows.

Prayers unanswered.
Cries unacknowledged.
Heaven seemingly quiet.

David felt this deeply. Psalm 13 opens with, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (NIV).

Forever is a dangerous word — it suggests abandonment.

And yet this same psalm ends with trust.

David doesn’t resolve his pain — he carries it into a relationship.

This is the tension Scripture allows, but church culture often doesn’t.

You can love God and question Him.
You can trust Him and wrestle.
You can be faithful and confused.

God is not fragile.

He does not require us to protect His reputation at the expense of our honesty.

Sometimes faith is not certainty — it is endurance.

Are We Just Mice in a Cosmic Game?

This is the thought that few people say out loud, but many feel.

If angels fell.
If battles occurred in the heavens.
If Satan roams.

Then are we just caught in the middle?

The Bible does acknowledge spiritual conflict. Ephesians 6:12 reminds us that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood” (NIV).

But Scripture never presents humanity as expendable.

On the contrary, it presents humanity as fiercely loved.

“So God created mankind in his own image” (Genesis 1:27, NIV).
“See what great love the Father has lavished on us” (1 John 3:1, NIV).
“For God so loved the world…” (John 3:16, NIV).

God does not treat us as pawns.

He treats us as children.

And children are allowed to ask why.

In fact, they’re encouraged to.

A God Who Allows Questions Is a God Who Desires Relationship

If there is one thing trauma teaches us, it is this:

Unasked questions rot internally.
Spoken questions invite healing.

God consistently invites dialogue.

“Come now, let us reason together,” says the Lord (Isaiah 1:18, NIV).

Reason — not silence.
Conversation — not suppression.

So maybe the presence of trauma does not mean God is absent.

Maybe it means the story is not finished.

The Bible does not end in Genesis.
It ends in Revelation — with restoration, tears wiped away, and pain undone.

That does not minimize present suffering.
But it reframes it.

Which brings us back to tattoos and trauma.

Some people wear their story because they don’t believe it will ever be redeemed.
Others hide it because they’re afraid it disqualifies them.

But God says neither is true.

Healing is not about erasing the past.
It is about redeeming it.

And that leads us to the most important question of all:

What do we do with trauma — seen or unseen?

Tattoos and Trauma

How Healing Happens, Why Hope Is Still Reasonable, and the God Who Walks With Us

By now, one thing should be clear:

There are no shallow answers to deep wounds.

Anyone who claims otherwise has either not suffered much — or has not yet stopped running from it.

Trauma does not dissolve because someone quotes a verse at the right volume.
It does not vanish because time passes.
It does not heal simply because faith exists.

Healing, in Scripture, is always relational, process-oriented, and costly.

Jesus never rushed healing.
He never shamed wounds.
He never blamed the broken for being broken.

Instead, He asked questions.
He noticed pain that others ignored.
He invited people into participation with their own restoration.

So when we ask, What do we do with tattoos and trauma — seen or unseen?
Scripture does not answer with theory.
It answers with pathways.

Below are three biblically grounded ways healing happens, not as formulas, but as invitations.

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1. Healing Begins When Trauma Is Brought Into the Light

One of trauma’s greatest powers is secrecy.

Pain that stays hidden festers.
Pain that is named begins to breathe.

Scripture is remarkably consistent on this.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

Notice what the verse does not say.

It does not say God is close to those who pretend they’re fine.
It does not say He saves those who suppress their pain well.
It says He is close to the brokenhearted — the ones who acknowledge their condition.

Jesus models this constantly.

When He encounters Bartimaeus, a blind man begging by the road, He does not assume his needs. He asks:

“What do you want me to do for you?”
— Mark 10:51 (NIV)

The question seems obvious — yet Jesus still asks.

Why?

Because healing begins when pain is spoken, not when it is guessed.

This matters deeply in conversations about tattoos and trauma.

Some people mark their pain visibly because no one ever gave them permission to speak it safely.
Others hide it because they were taught silence equals strength.

But Scripture offers a different equation:

Confession leads to healing.

“Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.”
— James 5:16 (NIV)

This verse is often limited to sin — but sin and trauma overlap more than we like to admit. Not because trauma is sinful, but because it shapes behaviour, reactions, coping, and relationships.

Bringing trauma into the light does not mean oversharing with unsafe people.
It means refusing to let pain define us in isolation.

Healing begins when someone sees us — not our appearance, not our armour — but our story.

And sometimes, the bravest thing a person can do is say:

“This hurt me.”
“I didn’t deserve it.”
“I don’t know how to carry this anymore.”

God meets us there.

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2. Healing Deepens When We Release the Burden of Self-Protection

Trauma teaches us to survive.

Survival strategies are not sinful — they are adaptive.

But what once protected us can later imprison us.

The person who told me their tattoos were a force field wasn’t wrong.
Armour keeps pain out — but it also keeps love out.

Scripture understands this tension well.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
— Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)

Guarding the heart is wise.
Sealing it shut is not.

Trauma often confuses the two.

We build walls where boundaries would suffice.
We harden where discernment would do.

Jesus invites us into a different posture.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

Rest is not the absence of danger — it is the presence of trust.

Jesus does not shame the weary.
He does not demand they fix themselves first.
He invites them to release what they’ve been carrying alone.

This is where many Christians struggle.

We believe in God — but we still self-protect as if everything depends on us.

We trust Him with eternity — but not with vulnerability.

Yet Scripture tells us plainly:

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.”
— 1 Peter 5:7 (NIV)

Casting implies letting go.

Not pretending the weight wasn’t heavy — but admitting we were never meant to carry it alone.

For some, tattoos symbolize self-ownership after violation.
For others, emotional distance does the same work.

God does not condemn the coping.

But He gently invites us to something more sustainable.

Not instant openness.
Not reckless trust.
But progressive surrender.

Healing happens when we slowly allow God to lower our shields — at a pace He honours.

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3. Healing Is Completed Through Redemption, Not Erasure

This may be the most important truth of all.

God does not heal by deleting history.

He heals by redeeming it.

The scars remain — but they no longer define the story.

Joseph says this clearly after a lifetime of betrayal, abandonment, and injustice:

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”
— Genesis 50:20 (NIV)

Notice what Joseph does not say.

He does not say the harm wasn’t real.
He does not say it didn’t matter.
He does not say God caused it.

He says God used it.

This distinction is critical.

God is not the author of trauma — but He is the Redeemer of it.

Jesus’ resurrected body still bore scars.

That alone should change how we view healing.

Scars do not mean incomplete healing.
They mean pain has passed through resurrection.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
— Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

This verse is often quoted cheaply — but it was written to people in exile, trauma, and displacement.

Hope was not immediate.
Restoration was not instant.
But meaning was not lost.

Healing reaches maturity when trauma no longer controls our identity — when our story becomes testimony rather than prison.

Some people will always wear their story on their skin.
Others will carry it quietly in wisdom, compassion, and depth.

Both can glorify God.

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So… Why Does God Allow This?

There is no sentence that ends the question.

But Scripture offers something better than answers:

Presence.

God does not explain suffering away — He enters it.
He does not rush healing — He walks it.
He does not fear our questions — He welcomes them.

Like a good Father, He allows growth even when it involves pain — not because He delights in suffering, but because love requires freedom, and freedom carries risk.

This world has been broken since the beginning.
Trauma is not new.
Neither is redemption.

And here is the quiet, hopeful truth:

We are living in a golden era — not because pain has disappeared, but because access to healing has expanded.

Scripture is available.
Community is possible.
Conversation is allowed.
Faith is no longer afraid of questions.

And most importantly:

God is still God.
Love is still stronger than fear.
Healing is still happening — one honest conversation at a time.

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A Closing Word of Gratitude

Thank you for the ability to ask.
Thank you for the freedom to question.
Thank you for a God who does not withdraw when we wrestle.

Thank you for scars — not because they hurt, but because they remind us we survived.

And thank you, Father God, for loving us — tattooed or untouched, wounded or wise, questioning or confident.

We love You.
We trust You.
And even when we don’t understand You — we are grateful You walk with us.

Amen.