I referred to this piece in my last blog post. This is a retelling of an experience I had during the time that my church family had deeply spiritual visitors who had fellowship with us.
It was mid-summer, and our church had been gathering at the campground on the edge of town almost every night for the last few days.
My pastor’s spiritual parents were visiting, and not a single one of us wanted to miss out on an evening of worship and fellowship with them.
I especially wanted to spend every possible moment that I could at the campground with my Windword family.
My heart was heavy with depression. Old traumas kept eroding the fragile confidence of my new faith, and I longed for proof that I was still loved. I needed a continuous stream of proof that I was connected and I was loved, because all too soon, my skin would once again feel like it didn’t fit me correctly, and shame wormed its way into my heart, and I sank away from Him for fear of being too ugly for His eyes.
After three days of fellowship and prayer and fun chats around fires, though, my expectations were small. Nothing extraordinary had happened with us, which was in itself strange, because as soon as our group started to worship and sing and pray, we inevitably opened the floodgates, eventually for spiritual interventions.
I should have known, though.
After all, God loves to be praised, and He so loves to show He’s there when you least expect Him.
That evening had been warm with a gentle breeze, as grey clouds gathered above us. We had every age group there, including children who raced and shouted as the rest of us talked by the fire.
When the rain finally tried to chase us away, we gathered beneath a makeshift shelter nearby. They rebuilt the fire inside an old wood stove, and that was when the real magic began.
All of us gathered in a semi-circle to the left of the fire. Some stood swaying, while some of us were seated in chairs. At the end of the arch closest to the warmth of the stove was the worship team, softly strumming a guitar and humming quietly to set the mood as we settled in. On the opposite end, sitting behind the flames, was where I sat – closest to the exit, as was my custom.
I was anxious that night, holding onto a deep, strangling fear that this spiritual family I had found would realize how unclean and unworthy I was of their love and of God’s. I was patiently waiting for them to see me the way that I saw myself, and be disgusted.
The crowd around me began singing, and I joined in when I knew the words. My heart sat heavy at the base of my throat, though, and I hung my head down to also quietly pray when I wasn’t joining the songs. I asked the Father to clean me, to make me love my skin again.
I knew that this sticky shame of past transgressions and trauma weren’t supposed to get in the way of my relationship with Him, but I needed Him to make that real in my heart. So, I asked Him to.
And that was when the atmosphere changed around us all.
Outside in the real world, the rain poured down in unforgiving torrents as the sky continued to darken. But within that place, that simple shelter with its warm, glowing fire, it was like a dream woven into its own separated bubble of space and time.
The air thickened like mist, tangible and holy. It almost appeared as though my prayer and the singing of our group were pouring out this strange shift from our very mouths. The music continued to rise in intensity, our song becoming louder, and the space between us hummed with a strange, gentle yet ferocious power. It felt like heaven had leaned in close to listen.
Tears rose in my eyes as someone exhaled a warm breath of air above me, and when I opened them, I was the one standing there looking down at my shattered self.
She sat there holding back tears with eyes clenched shut and a clear struggle etched into her features. All the scars from our past seemed visible again, every old wound of shame and pain laid bare before me. It was as if when I was pulled free from myself, all my pain and shame from within became a clear beating woven across my skin.
Yet, she sat there, worshipping through her tears and belting the lyrics without a care for knowing we were tone deaf. Her voice at that moment was her weapon, and she wielded it like she’d trained her whole life for this battle.
And then, I saw Him. Not with my eyes at first, but somewhere deeper. My heart swelled in my chest, and I turned to see Jesus standing before me, bronzed skin glowing in the firelight. My Saviour.
He smiled down at my seated self, and I was pulled back inside my skin. I felt the impact of that smile in my chest. It hurt. It hurt so much after everything I’d been through.
He bent down, wrapped His arms around me, and lifted me to stand with Him. He led me to a small space in the widest part of the arc between the group and the dancing fire. All around us, heads were bowed in worship.
He began to lead me in a slow, swaying dance, and my nerves choked the breath from my lungs while I struggled to follow His lead. I didn’t know how to dance, and I didn’t want to ruin this strange, beautiful moment with my Saviour by being clumsy.
He didn’t seem to notice, though, when I stepped on His foot or mechanically followed His movements like a manikin brought to life.
And slowly, ever so gently, like a flower in bloom, I began to calm down in His arms. I realized with a gentle sense of clarity from within; this is Jesus Christ leading me. I was going to be alright, no matter my own shortcomings.
In the same instant that I fully allowed myself to trust in His lead, something began to change from inside me, working its way out to the surface. I no longer made awkward, mechanical movements. I moved fluidly with Him like we’d danced like this a thousand times before.
And one by one, I felt each of my wounds seal up, the swelling in my beaten bruises dulled, and the colours faded, leaving me whole and healed. And He looked down at me with so much joy that it hurt again to witness.
When all the marks of abuse and battle were fully gone, Jesus was grinning like a young boy who’d just won a prize.
I saw a glow begin to swirl beneath my skin.
“There she is,” He whispered.
As though He had found me right then in that moment when I was fully made whole. As if He had to search through the abuse and heal its evidence in order to finally see me.
I couldn’t speak, but the tears were returning to my eyes. I caught myself wondering, why would you go through so much effort to find me when there are probably much easier people to see… why would you do this? I didn’t say it aloud, though. I didn’t trust my voice, and it felt wrong to question Him in that moment.
Yet, of course, He knew those thoughts, and He answered with His own questions, “why would I die for you, and yet not want to find you? Why would I suffer for you, and then leave you to still continue to suffer?”
I couldn’t answer. Silence brought back His gentle, heart-wrenching smile.
“I wanted you,” He told me. “I wanted to see you and take all this pain. It is not yours. It was never meant for you to carry. You were meant to glow.”
And with the shock of His words settling into my heart, I opened my eyes once more, returned to my chair amidst the singing crowd.
The tears were drying against my cheeks, and I pressed a hand against my aching heart.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I realized in that moment that I hadn’t simply become forgiven of sin when I accepted Christ. No, it was so much more than that. I was made whole. I was healed. I was loved. I was wanted.
I didn’t share that experience for many months afterwards, but every time the rain began to fall, I would remember that vision. I would remember the warmth of the Son’s arms as He led the dance, and the simplicity in His voice when He told me I was destined to glow, like it should have been a known fact, like the sky being blue.
I was wanted, and I was Saved.
Even now, when worship fills the air, I remember that dance — and the truth that His love had already made me whole.
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