Growing up, my dad’s wrath had been like a volcano to me in my inability to rest when I was near him.

In the constant danger.

In his unpredictable explosions.

In the imminent threat of death.

So, a few months ago as I was exploring ways to create closure with my dad, it came to me.

I could go and face the volcano in person.

I needed to physically climb through the dark ashes. To hear and feel the rumble of an ominous mountain I had always been afraid of, but this time, I would have tools.

I wanted to meet my dad on that volcano; a painful need to meet him. To face the man I had been terrified of all of my life.

Maybe through this volcano I could face him.

So I climbed uphill 13,000 feet above sea level to meet him.

It was a prayer.

A plea.

A lament.

A facing toward the terror I had internalized since childhood. This terror had shielded me from the murders my dad had committed when I was a little girl. But my own running from this terror kept me from using my voice.

From taking my place in this world.

And most importantly, it kept the little girl in me ever captive in the terror.

I prayed that if it could happen somehow, I was ready to meet with my dad, face him, and hear what he had to say to me on his deathbed many years ago.

And he did meet me there.

And I wept for him.

I was able to finally mourn him.

And that was good. So good for me.

I will reclaim you from that dark, lonely closet you used to sleep in.

Hold yourself.

Hold your own heart.

Help it trust you can handle its pain.

That it can trust you when it’s broken.

Dear body, I am sorry I have not been at home in you.

The pain scattered all my parts to help me survive.

My heart. My mind. My spirit.

Something happened.

Something happened to what held you and I together.

It’s too late to rescue my sisters, brothers.

And I never had a chance at rescuing my mother.

But today.

I can finally rescue me.

Despair. It can live quietly in the corners of my being. It can go unnoticed for years. Even decades. Until one day it is no longer quiet.

It is loud….

Despair is a painful gnawing within.

An aching emptiness.

A lonely tomb.

It feels like it eats up my bones. My heart. My stomach. It turns my food bitter. My hands cold.

It drains my energy. Turns my strength into ashes. The sunlight into darkness.

It draws out all of my blood leaving me with nothing as I hear over and over again, “What you most desired in this life. Will never. Come to pass.”

One day in a season of deep loss, I finally broke.

I shattered.

My heart. My mind. My spirit.….All in pieces.

It was from this place of absolute decimation, with sharp shards of broken life and broken heart everywhere that I began to very slowly, examine the painful lies I had believed about me, my life, and my future.

I began to pay visits to my past to take a closer look at my story. I needed to go back to ground zero where it had all started for me. Here is where I began to uncover from underneath the rubble…

• bloody wounds from my childhood,

• compound fractures from soul-crushing religious systems,

• and tender bruises from the ways I had unknowingly continued generational trauma threads in my own life.

In this exploration, I also unearthed something else underneath the rubble, something completely unexpected…

I began to uncover qualities about myself that had been buried underneath the harmful words and traumatic experiences I had lived through. As I examined my life stories, I started to see not only the buried wounds that needed healing, but also the flowers deep within me that could help me begin to heal.

In the span of our lives there have been specific moments which have formed us, marked us, and sometimes shattered us in deep places of our hearts. Most of the time we are too busy, too numb, too distracted or too afraid to pause to notice the bruised, fractured, or wounded places in our hearts.