By RTF Guest Writer Elora Ramirez

Sometimes, the biggest step we can make with grace is the acknowledgment of the wrecking ball of pain inside.

My recognition came in the form a whisper and a prayer.

The minute I admitted my childhood abuse the power shifted and I knew nothing would be the same.

For years, my concept of grace was skewed. I would run – as fast as I could – away from dwelling in His presence out of fear. I constantly waited for the other hand to fall – a clenched fist crashing against my heart. I wasn’t whole. I wasn’t pure. These memories – they haunted me and wrapped their seedy hands around my heart so tight I couldn’t feel. I lived half a life. Half-feeling, half-breathing, half-hiding.

The pain gets suffocating, doesn’t it? Even if you are not the one who wounded, the hiding and running and numbing keep the heart from healing. So my wound just festered and grew infected.

I’d wake up achy inside, and to stuff the feeling deeper, I’d eat.

A memory would hit me unaware, and to avoid the feeling of unavoidable pain, I withdrew from my husband.

I busied myself. I cleaned. I worried myself into a tizzy and couldn’t focus at work.

I so badly needed to speak it – needed to make room for healing – but the fear stopped me every time. What would people say? What would my family say? Would they think of me different if they knew I went to a therapist? Would they understand if I didn’t come home for the holidays?

In a word, I was concerned about the grace given to me by those who hurt me most.

A sickening, mind-numbing, weakening, debilitating cycle of pain.

And then, I started Recovery – a program at my church for those needing a reminder of God’s abundant grace for everyone – regardless of the mess. The first step? Admitting your life is totally out of control and you are powerless to change it.

Within a week I was bent-over double with my own brokenness.

It was here I realized something. It is not the grace of others I am craving, but the grace of One who knows me best. His grace meets me in my darkest moments. When He peels back those layers of festering skin around my hardened heart, it’s His grace that heals.

This gives me tremendous freedom.

I still struggle. At 29 years old, I’m dealing with moments of my life that happened over 25 years ago. My heart’s undergone bits and pieces of surgical grace these past few months, and each time it’s more difficult.

But it’s not supposed to be easy.

In order to restore, He must break. In order to heal, He must wound.

And in order to Him to bathe me in His grace, I must be willing to admit how far I’ve wandered from His touch. I must be willing to rest in His embrace – no matter the cost.

****