Beth M. Broom
(This post is a prayer I wrote as I was reflecting on what the Lord has taught me throughout my life. I’m sharing it in hopes that it will encourage you and remind you that he is with you in the valley.)
I remember being very young and longing for something big. I wasn’t even sure what. I wanted to be part of something that changed the world. As I grew I learned that maybe this kind of desire was selfish, like maybe I was trying too hard to grab a spotlight. I admit I did like being noticed and encouraged for my hard work or talent, but it was more than that. One time a missionary came to our church and talked about how God was saving people in a whole different country. He said there was incredible harvest work to do across the world. And I remember feeling very small. Like I could never make a big enough impact because I was only one person. And a very little person at that. But I also remember thinking about kids at school who didn’t know Jesus. That was important too.
I remember feeling like an outcast. I had a few friends, but most of the kids at school didn’t appreciate me. They called me a goody-goody. They thought I was judgmental (and they were probably right, since I didn’t understand why everyone wouldn’t want to do the right thing and follow God). The first time I was really bullied was in third grade. One girl turned my group of friends against me, and suddenly I didn’t have anyone. I remember feeling frustrated, like it wasn’t fair. But I also felt very lonely. And I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. That was the time you first captured my heart. You came in and made a home with me. I learned that you were the most faithful friend a girl could ever have.
I got scared a lot when I was a kid. I felt most afraid that someone would break into our house or that a fire would break out and I’d be burned. When I was in sixth grade I started noticing spiritual beings that scared me. I could see them. But my parents wanted me to be strong and face my fears. I didn’t receive much comfort when I was afraid. So I turned to you. I remember praying and visualizing you holding my hand or giving me a hug. I remember saying Bible verses out loud in my room at night. Anything I could remember. I learned to pray in Jesus’ name against the schemes of the enemy. I learned that demons have to obey you, and when I told them to go away, they did. I learned that fear is very real, but that you understand it. It doesn’t surprise you. You know how to calm the storm.
In junior high I learned that kids can be very mean for no good reason. They looked for ways to torment me. They laughed at me and played pranks on me. They exposed me to great embarrassment. They made me cry. And all I wanted to do was be liked for who I was. That was the time I learned that you like me for who I am. I was 13, and you weren’t waiting for the better version of me to show up. You were glad I was me. You didn’t put conditions on your love for me.
In high school I wanted to have a boyfriend. I wanted to be someone’s special person. I wanted to have someone I could call special. I tried really hard. But I wasn’t like the other girls. I didn’t want to do things they did to get attention. So I found myself disappointed again and again. That was the time I learned that you aren’t disappointed in me. No matter how pretty I am.
Then came my senior year. I learned that sometimes a boy will pretend to like you so that he can take advantage of you. So that he can be the one who took away your purity. I learned that he can think it’s funny to hurt you. That was the time I learned that I really didn’t know what it meant to suffer and still believe everything you say in the Bible. I learned I was actually really fragile, and I actually believed the wrong things about what it would mean for me to trust you in the darkness. But I also learned that you really do come near when everything is crashing down. And you use your people to do it. You use unlikely heroes, like 15-year-old boys and girls who don’t know much theology but know a lot about how to cry together and offer to punch someone who hurt me.
Dancing was everything to me. I felt like I was flying when I was on the stage. I felt overwhelming joy. And then came the injury. The fear of losing it all. The thought that maybe I couldn’t have that part of my identity anymore. And I limped away from it. Then you spoke to me in a crowd of kids. You told me to ask you for healing. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask before that moment. I asked. And my friends prayed for me. I felt the muscles and tendons move. I felt warm. I couldn’t stop laughing. I went out on the beach and danced in the sand. No pain. No hindrance. That was the time I learned that you are a healer. And if you could heal my body, you could do another miracle. You could put back together what a stupid boy had taken away from me.
Then came the season of trying to let you heal my soul. To learn what it meant to suffer and still be under the shadow of your wing. I remember reading Psalm 139 a thousand times and hating it. But I couldn’t turn away. Something kept drawing me back to it. When I go to the depths, you are there. Before a word is on my tongue, you know it. Search me, O God, and know my heart. I remember looking in the mirror and fighting to believe the words, “fearfully and wonderfully made.” I thought I was going to lose that fight. But you kept sending me back there, inviting me to say the words. To look at myself and try to see what you see. To look beyond the pain and trust that you had something good left for me to do in life. Something good left for me to be.
I remember looking at the ocean. It was so big. It kept changing and swelling and wetting my feet. It was chaos, but it was also constant. I remember thinking about the story of how you calmed the sea by just talking to it. You weren’t bothered by the chaos, because you owned it. And I remember asking you to help me believe this truth in the deepest part of my soul.
In college I asked you to give me compassion. And then I shared about the assault one time at a camp with middle school girls. Later that day, my life changed forever. I listened as innocent children told me story after story of horrific things that had been done to them. I couldn’t believe it, and yet I completely believed it. I had lived it myself. And now I had the opportunity to cry with people, pray with them, invite them to trust you with their burdens. I had no idea what I was doing, but you were with me. That was the time I learned that you can use my pain to help other people who are in pain. My scars can give hope to someone whose scars have not yet begun to heal. I also learned that I didn’t have to be all better to be helpful. My brokenness was actually the catalyst for ministry.
I remember meeting, dating, and marrying my husband. I remember being quite arrogant, thinking we would be the perfect couple. Boy, was I wrong. That was the time I learned I had a million miles to go in my healing journey. I felt discouragement like never before. But I also felt your nearness. I learned that you don’t care how many miles are left in my journey. You intend to walk every one of them with me, and you intend to move at the pace I can move. You also intend to drop mercy along the path, just like you dropped manna for the Israelites. Once in a while someone would encourage me. I would hear a song that nourished my soul. You reminded me often that nothing could separate me from your love.
The fear came roaring in when I was a young mom. Back by popular demand. I felt like I had to learn my middle school lessons all over again. How to cling to you. How to renounce the enemy’s lies. How to fix my eyes on you. And just when I thought I’d learned, I would have to learn again. I thought I was going in circles. But that’s the time I learned that what feels like a circle is actually a spiral coil spinning in a single direction. The movement was slow but real. And again, you were moving with me, at my pace.
Sickness came to live with me during that time as well. Nobody could figure me out. I felt so much pain and fatigue that I could barely move. I had to give up everything but my job. Volunteering in ministry went away. Church activities went away. Friendships died. My children watched too much TV. I felt completely useless and purposeless. That was the time I learned that you love me even when I’m lying in bed. Doing nothing. And you can’t love me more or less than you do. It’s not possible. That was also the time I learned that prayer is the greatest ministry a person can do. Intercession is powerful.
Financial burdens seemed constant. I was frantic. Panicked. This kind of fear was probably the worst for me, because I had no control. No ability to make things better. All I could do was beg you to help us. To try to hope for a miracle. That was the time I learned that you own everything. You intend to keep us tethered to you, but you don’t intend to cause us harm. You give us what we need. And my greatest need was not to have all the bills paid. My greatest need was you.
Motherhood has always been a bright spot. I was given three incredible children. We had our hard times, of course, but we liked each other (and still do). This was such a gift to me. It was one of my biggest dreams and prayers. The lesson I learned most from motherhood was that sometimes you just spoil me. You pour out your favor for no reason other than that you are a kind and loving Father. No way do I deserve it. I just get to drink it in. I have also learned that I need to shut my mouth quite a bit more than I want to. I learned that I need to pay attention to your Spirit’s prompting and connect with my kids like you connect with me. This shows them who you are.
When I finally went back to school to try to learn to be a counselor, I was so nervous. What if I wasn’t up for it? What if I worked really hard and paid a lot of money, and no one wanted to hire me? I remember sitting in a dorm room at Liberty University with study materials all around me. I remember feeling great despair, like I was falling into futility. I was so insecure. Certain I would fail at this thing I had grown to love. You showed me a picture of myself in a little boat in the middle of the ocean, storm raging all around. And you said, “Drop your anchor.” I remembered Hebrews 6:19. You are the anchor of the soul. A promise that cannot be removed. You told me that you have me. You hold the universe together by the word of your power, and the universe includes me.
When I worked at our church, I had to face all my insecurities head on. It was not pretty. I found myself returning to a high-school-like state again, questioning every action and word and motive. Wondering if people actually liked me. Trying to prove that I deserved to be there. I grew very anxious and weary. I didn’t rest. I was striving for more and bigger, and it caused exhaustion. That was the time I learned that even if I know a lot of Bible, it doesn’t mean I know a lot of Jesus. I can be good at planning events and leading ministries, but I can be inwardly emaciated and empty. The most important thing I can do is to grab hold of you with both arms. You are the vine. You are rest and peace.
At the peak of exhaustion, I gave up and went to counseling. Finally. And we had another moment that was life-altering. I imagined standing on the beach with you, in the moonlit surf. You smiled at me. You said, “I want you to soar.” In that moment I realized I had always been holding back. Always afraid that I didn’t deserve to lead. To be creative. To try something new. To go after what I really dreamed of. But then you said it. You want me to soar. You don’t want me nailed to the ground. You don’t want me to hide or be afraid. You want my dreams to happen. You empower and equip me so that I can do the same for others.
Then came a season of new beginnings. A new organization. New opportunities. New friendships. And all along the way, I had moments when I thought I was going to run out of ideas. I was going to stop being helpful. But you kept giving me more. You overflowed my cup. You helped me face my fears, and you showed me that you were always going to be my lifeline. My source of strength and joy.
I’ve felt the sting of betrayal. I’ve felt the ache of loss. In moments of turmoil, I’ve wondered where you are. But…you felt those things first. You went before me. And now you go with me. You have never, ever left me. You have been good. Every moment of my life, even when it didn’t feel good. Your goodness has always followed me. I know it will keep following me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. I love you.
