My family was seated at the dinner table when the phone rang. I answered, and a drunken voice on the other end slurred my name. “Ginny?” I recognized it instantly, and all the horrible feelings I’d buried deep inside came rushing to the surface. The voice belonged to someone who had hurt me years before. My stomach churned. I stumbled through the short conversation in which the man asked, “Will you forgive me?” He didn’t mean it – how could he, when he was obviously drunk? I said the words, mostly to get him off the phone. “I forgive you.”

But I didn’t, not really. The pain was too deep, too vivid. When I hung up, the tears came. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in, sobbing hysterically. How could I forgive him, when the wounds sill hurt so badly? My cries became prayers, pleas to the Father who instructed me to forgive those who hurt me.

Then I felt His presence. The bathroom became what author Mary deMuth calls a “thin place,” where I could glimpse the perfection of God’s eternity. My Father didn’t want my suffering to continue; regardless of that man’s sincerity, Jesus wanted to heal my deep wounds. But before He could, I had to let go of the bitterness and anger that kept them open. I had to forgive. It was a relief to say the words that time, because I spoke to One who loved me unconditionally. When I did, He wrapped His healing arms around me, and set me free.

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(This blog post was written in response to a writing challenge by Mary deMuth, author of Thin Places, a Memoir on her blog, Wanna Be Published. The writer of the winning blog post will receive a Kindle, which is why I wanted to participate. But as I wrote about this incident, I was reminded powerfully of a time when God was once again true to His word and gave me beauty for ashes. When He does something awesome like that, how can we not want to share it with others? I invite you to check out Mary’s contest here. )