Beginning to Believe

I’m
fifty-eight. I’m beginning to believe in myself.

One of
the results of childhood abuse has been a difficulty with believing in my own
judgment. My childish belief, “I should have known not to go with my father
that terrible day,” has warped my self-image.

The
length of time this healing has taken is a measure of the depth of the
infirmity. God has taught me, with patient and persistent repetition, to
recognize my decision-making abilities.  (I
just edited the second sentence, from “one of the results is” to “one of the results has
been.” That says it all.)

How hard
it is to see oneself with God’s objectivity. The sin against us, especially
against our vulnerable child selves, leaves subtle and lasting marks. Those
who’ve been neglected often feel worth less than their parent’s time:  worthless. Those who’ve been bullied by
classmates struggle with powerlessness. In this fallen world, we struggle with the
many consequences of others’ sin.

And yet,
God. God, who is making us into the image of Jesus. God, for whom nothing is
too difficult. God, who promises never to leave or forsake you. God, who
believes in you. That God is healing us, making us fit for his kingdom.

Father, show
us today how to cooperate in the healing you are working into our hearts.