King of My Past
I have no big story of trauma to speak of. It took me years to realize the baggage I was carrying from my past simply because I could not name the thing. Sure, I had pain from different kinds of rejection, parts of my lifelong faith that needed renovation, and hurts from relationships and situations – but in my mind, I had not suffered like others had. My story did not deserve to be told because it simply wasn’t that bad.
When things started showing up in my life – attitudes, habits, and behaviours – that didn’t fit with who I wanted to become, I did what I always knew to do. I buckled down and worked harder at fixing it. More control. More discipline. More responsibility.
Down I went into the muck and mire of shame, allowing the Enemy of my soul to steal my joy and trap me in self-condemnation. Along the journey, I came to realize that at the root of my problems was pride.
When things were going well, I took credit.
When things were going poorly, I blamed myself.
Me. Me. Me. The more I made my past about me, the further I was from freedom.
Giving Jesus my past has been a slow, hard work of bringing him my memories and repenting of pride, sinful responses to wounds inflicted, and for the ways that I have made my life all about me. I am getting better at recognizing when I have returned to bondage, but I have far to go. I too quickly return to my defense mechanisms.
My pride. My self-pity.
In his kindness, Jesus does not walk me through it all at once. He leads me into more freedom, step by step, whenever I’m willing to go with him and make him King of my Past.