When the Dust Settled

A lotus sprang forth from your hand
Like the sparrow’s first warble of spring
Or a magician’s uncloaked bouquet.
Abra cadabra: first nothing, then something.

After winter’s long enchainment
You offered the bloom ex nihilo
From the soil You’d been tending—
The very place I deemed my destruction.

Yet a flower broke through the wound
In your hand, pure and untouched
By the relentless decay of death.
With the resurrected sun, I grow; I rise.

 *a version of this poem was originally published here.

Sozo is a small Greek word that contains an abundance of depth and meaning. It means “salvation,” but also means “made whole” or “healed.” In the spring of 2015, I found myself sitting in a thinly cushioned chair in the small conference room of a mega church—desperately needing wholeness and healing. Sozo is the name of the healing prayer ministry I was about to experience, which I signed up for because I had run out of options and felt like I’d come up against an insurmountable wall in my personal and spiritual life. My soul was weary, and in desperate need of hope.

Although I wouldn’t say my experience of Sozo was a cure-all (nothing is in this life), there is one memory I’ve kept from the experience that has had healing ripple effects for years following. Towards the end of my session, the facilitator asked me to close my eyes and visualize a high concrete wall, which represented unforgiveness.

“Is there anyone in your life who you need to forgive?” the facilitator gently asked.

“Um….a whole heck of a lot of people,” I responded not-too-politely in my head.

My mind was flooded with the faces of people who had hurt me throughout my life, the wounds of which I was still carting around as evidence of how unfairly I had been treated. I saw the freckled face of the boy who teased me in 6th grade for having glasses and braces. I saw eyebrows raised in disapproval on the face of my 8th grade teacher who seemed to enjoy sending me to the principal’s office. I saw the faces of those who had betrayed me in high school, college, and beyond—people I had loved and trusted. Withholding forgiveness, I believed, was the only thing that gave me power over the people who had made me feel powerless since elementary school. And yet, the unforgiveness I clung to with all my might was only making my own heart harder and heavier. I sighed aloud, mentally agreeing to try this exercise in forgiveness.

Painfully and one by one, I visualized each person and what they had done to me, doing my best to speak words of forgiveness over them in agreement with what Jesus has already done through his death on the cross. With each act of forgiveness, the concrete wall crumbled a little more until it was a pile of rubble at my feet. At this point the facilitator checked back in:

“Is there any debris left, any part of the wall remaining?”

What more does this lady want?! I angrily thought. Isn’t the destruction of the wall enough? Who cares if there’s a few rocks lying around? What else can I do?

Instead of voicing my frustration, I nodded, my eyes still closed. Yes, there was still a large pile of debris around me.

“Have you forgiven yourself?” she asked.

I froze.

Why, no. . .no I had certainly not.

I had not forgiven myself for making choices that led to getting my heart broken. I had not forgiven myself for gaining weight from months of stress eating. I had not forgiven myself for trusting people I shouldn’t have. I had not forgiven myself for not being perfect. Reluctantly, I shook my head No. Sensing my distress, the facilitator invited me to see myself as Jesus saw me.

I took a deep breath, and saw myself standing among the pile of rocks and broken concrete at my feet. In the distance, where the wall had once been, I saw someone clothed all in white walking towards me, moving through the debris with ease. As he grew closer, the pile of heavy broken rocks around me began to blow away as if they were dust. Upon reaching me, he stopped and extended his closed right hand to me. His fingers slowly uncurled to reveal a single white lotus flower resting in his palm, which he then extended to me. Taking the flower, I knew I’d been given the freedom and release I did not know I needed. In a moment of sheer grace, the painful pile of debris had been replaced with a lotus—pure and white.

This is what Jesus does for each of us: He asks us to hand Him the things we cannot carry in exchange for a freedom we cannot fathom. Upon announcing His ministry in the temple, Jesus declares these words from Isaiah 61:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

As I read this passage, I wonder:

• How many times have I clung in futility to the ashes of what I thought my life was supposed to be, denying the crown of beauty and forgiveness God wishes to bestow instead?

• Why do I so often choose control and captivity over surrender and freedom?

• If I truly believe the words of Isaiah 61 as Jesus’ words of healing to me, how does that change the way I see others?

We worship a Sozo-ing God who gives flowers for rubble; forgiveness for bitterness; healing for hurting. To this day, the memory of that lotus flower reminds me that shame over our imperfection and mistakes does not have to rule in our hearts. There is another way—a better way—but its cost is full surrender.

As God’s beloved daughters and sons, will we step boldly into the light of grace, daring to live in the truth of forgiveness?

Or will we cling to the ashes of yesterday, allowing voices of shame and bitterness to dictate our lives?

There are still days when I struggle to forgive, when painful memories pop up like a crown of thorns around my heart. My stomach churns, and the pain feels fresh. On those days, I ask for the strength to forgive again, and again, and again until the anger and shame grows softer, and the security that comes with being loved grows stronger.

Our God gives beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, praise for despair.

We need only to open our hands.