They say…

They say that writers have tortured souls. And they may be right. Writers tend to be processors, as in, they take a while to process through things… sometimes taking days, months, or years to tell you how they actually feel.

Writers also tend to bottle their emotions. (At least this writer does!) All of a sudden, the hurts, the trite statements that someone jabs at you, the gossip you’ve endured, COMES CRASHING DOWN, in a heap on the floor. And then you furiously write…write…. write… until your fingers are numb, your fingernails are broken and you’ve cried out enough tears that you’ve dehydrated yourself.

I could have been a tortured writer… but I’m not.

Here’s why.

It was two weeks before my 6th-grade year. I had travelled to my Grandma Gus’ house to spend an ENTIRE WEEK WITH HER and my Gramps by myself. I was ecstatic.

We had an amazing time… musicals in the city, shopping for a Caboodle, newly pierced ears… and a slumber party with my cousins. (Okay, they are technically my third cousins, I think?)

And then the floor to my reality fell out beneath me. On the way to surprise my Gramps at the Ford dealership where he worked, my Grandma Gus and I took a detour and stopped at the bank for some birthday money for my younger cousin. Within minutes of pulling out of the bank’s parking lot and heading towards my Gramp’s work, our car was flipped several times into a bean field, after being hit by a driver who had been drinking.

When I awoke in that upside-down car, pinned between the dash and the car windshield, I could tell my Grandma Gus was dying. I couldn’t move to help her. All I could do was cry and try to hold her hand.

What seemed like hours passed, I passed in and out of consciousness. It may have been minutes. But eventually, a fireman with the Jaws of Life cut the door off the car, while I clung onto a woman deputy who had partially crawled into the car with me. She spoke encouragement and brushed the bloodied hair off my face, while I kept asking, “Is my Grandma okay?” She never answered that question.

I asked the paramedics when the ambulance whisked me away as well; they didn’t answer either. It wasn’t until my defeated and demolished Gramps walked into the ER room, that I knew she was gone.

That night, as my parents drove the 10 hours to Illinois where I was, I sat alone on my hospital bed; my Grandma Gus’ best friend snoring in the recliner next to me.

I wept. I had never felt more alone than ever that night.

“Jesus…” I whispered out loud. “I need you.” And He was there. Immediately. It’s the strangest sensation when you’re overwhelmed with the Spirit of Jesus. He feels more real than your current reality. He seems to be louder than the noises around you. He comforts you with just His Presence.

He still meets me that way.

I may have once had a tortured soul… but I’ve been set free. Jesus took that torture upon himself, bled, and died for the sins I imposed on Him, as well as everyone else’s. He died taking the bloodied humanity that fights against each other upon his back. He breathed in evil, slander, murder, gossip, unintentional sins, dishonesty, rape, abuse, neglect, idol worship, pride, and more into his lungs and died for all of us. Because of us.

But He was the only one who was able to conquer that torture. Defeat evil and death. Come back to life. And ascend to the throne in heaven, as the King of the Kingdom.

The pain of that day has faded. New pain has emerged. But I’ve learned how to put my torture where it belongs now. So, when I feel the pain of my thoughts returning, I whisper, “Jesus, I need you!”

And He’s there.