The Prodigal Daughter: I'm Not Dead Yet

I've been to church twice this week. We're having autumn Revival at my small East Texas Baptist church. We had a Black preacher come preach for us and he was AWESOME. I adore Black preachers. I don't know what it is but they keep it real and truly "bring it." And I needed it to be brought, desperately. On Tuesday he preached about being shackled. He did the whole sermon in handcuffs as a literal illustration of those things in life that hold us back. He spoke about addiction and fear--it was as if he were speaking straight to me. He spoke of grudges and forgiveness. Sometimes the only way to break the shackles of hatred is to forgive the hated. This struck me somewhat deeply. A few days ago I cried out in no uncertain terms that I was very angry with the people that sexually molested me as a small child. What you must understand about this situation is that these were people I didn't know--female daycare workers--and that my childish brain repressed all memory of the incident, although it was a big deal and the cops were involved and everything. I always felt there was something wrong with me, and that I wasn't good--but I never knew why. Until I was 18 years old. That's when my mother told me the whole story. It was so surreal. Something you never think could happen to you already did. It took me a few years to really come to terms with it because with no memory it was just a story about my past self. I finally came to grips with the reality of what happened when I had a memory through clinical hypnotherapy. It was the best day of my life, because for the first time, it was real. It wasn't just ME that was inherently wrong...someone hurt me and took that away from me. What I remember most in the memory I did have in my subconscious was the fear. The incredible terror. Like falling out of a plane or going downslope on a roller coaster. I hadn't been able to forgive those people for doing that to me because I have no memory of who they are or anything. Nothing. I wouldn't recognize them if we ran into each other on the street. When the preacher started talking about forgiveness, I spontaneously choked up. It's those people still holding me back. It's those people I must forgive to finally be free of the shackles they put me in, for better or for worse. I knew what I had to do. At the end of the sermon, the preacher broke free from the handcuffs and tossed them to the side of the room. During the Invitation, I went to the altar and fell on my knees to pray. I prayed that God would help me forgive those people, so that I may break free from the chains I find myself in. Well that amongst other things. As I rose to retake my seat, I saw the handcuffs lying on the floor and stopped short. I looked at them hard. Without real knowledge of my actions, I picked them up and looked at them even harder. Slowly I turned around and carried them over to the altar of my Lord, and dropped them there for Him to take care of. I made my way back to the family pew with a satisfied smile on my face. God was the key. He always was and always will be. It was the first of many shackles to be broken.