I was running at full speed, my heart pounding in my chest, and my lungs felt like they were about to burst. I had been running for what felt like hours, but the pack of monsters was still chasing me relentlessly. Their deafening roars echoed through the forest, sending shivers down my spine. As I kept glancing over my shoulder, I could see the shadowy figures of the monsters getting closer and closer.
As I ran, I began to notice something strange about the monsters’ shapes. They seemed too tall and too still, almost like oddly shaped trees. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, but the shapes remained the same. I shook my head, trying to shake off the fear clouding my judgment. I had to keep running.
My heart was pounding in my chest as I stumbled over a root and almost fell. I scrambled to regain my footing, my mind racing with terror. I could still hear the monsters’ roars, growing louder and more menacing by the second. I knew I had to keep running to get as far away from the creatures as possible, but my legs felt like they were made of lead.
As I gasped for breath, I looked back and saw the shadowy figures of the monsters moving closer again. They seemed to be getting larger and larger, their massive frames casting long shadows in the fading light. I couldn’t tell if they were real or just my imagination, but I knew one thing for sure: I needed to find the clearing.
Well, hello, world. It certainly has been a while since I’ve written regularly. I could make a long list of excuses, but I figured the metaphor above would be sufficient to explain my unwillingness to write—something I know that I am not only gifted to do but called to do. But before I tell you what God has been teaching me. I must admit something that I have kept to myself for a long time because the shame the enemy brought with it has kept me quiet. Apart from carrying a diagnosis of TAR Syndrome, I was diagnosed with complex PTSD almost three years ago. It’s something that, for a long time, I’ve let consume my identity. While I won’t rule out the fact that I will ever talk about the “trauma” (I hate that word because our culture has hijacked it to mean victim rather than describe something we’ve been through), I have learned that my automatic trust of secular doctors has caused me to let them label things within me that they didn’t create or own. So, they have no right to label things.
Renowned author and leadership expert Simon Sinek has a metaphor (that has not only inspired the metaphor above) but will be a metaphor that I will love to steal and use for the rest of my life. If you’ve ever been skiing, you might know how they teach skiers to avoid the trees; they teach them to ignore them and follow the path because, as Sinek so eloquently quips, “You will always think of an elephant if I tell you not to.”
I’ve been living my life with the ultimate goal of “not hitting a tree.” Perhaps a better way to say this is I’ve been fighting as hard as I cannot “hit a trigger” because I don’t trust myself sometimes. If you have been around for a while, you know that I feel the call of God on my life to serve in ministry, and something I have been so ashamed to share is the number of “no’s” I’ve gotten in the last three years. I can’t tell you the number of jobs I’ve applied for, interviews I’ve done, and “hard conversations” I’ve had to have.
Furthermore, when the doors slammed shut, I blamed myself. When you live in a body like mine, it’s hard not to see the world as always to “get you.” I’d surmise this is the reason so many people with disabilities statistically have higher rates of suicide (which I’d argue is why euthanasia is becoming a “thing) and mental health issues.
As the scorching sun beat down upon the desolate desert, its merciless rays seemed to sear through every layer of my being. I trudged wearily across the barren landscape, my steps faltering with each painful stride. The wind whispered cruel taunts, carrying grains of sand that stung like needles against my leprous skin. My body felt like a prison, shackled by the relentless decay that gnawed at my flesh, leaving behind a trail of desolation.
But then, as if guided by an unseen hand, I stumbled upon the oasis the prophet had spoken of—a shimmering ribbon of water cutting through the parched earth like a lifeline. Tears of hope mingled with the sweat of exhaustion as I gazed upon the glistening surface, my heart pounding with anticipation. With trembling hands, I reached out to touch the cool embrace of the river, feeling its life-giving currents course through my veins like a whispered promise of redemption.
With a mixture of trepidation and desperate longing, I submerged myself into the depths of the river, each dip a prayer whispered upon the lips of faith. The water enveloped me like a tender embrace, washing away the stains of disease and despair that had plagued me for so long. With each immersion, I felt the grip of leprosy loosen its hold until, at last, I emerged from the water reborn—a testament to the miraculous power of divine grace. The desert echoed with the joyous cries of newfound liberation as I stood upon the banks, my skin aglow with the radiance of healing, a living testament to the boundless mercy of the Almighty.
It would hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t see it coming. I’d find it buried in a social media algorithm, but it wasn’t the “algorithm” that brought it to me—now I know it was Him. I have a sort of ghoulish compulsion to watch “TikTok preachers” when they come across my timeline, and I guess that is what made me stop and listen. The pastor was standing in a pool of water and telling the story of Naaman, a name you probably haven’t heard before. If you’re unfamiliar, his story (told most cleverly and dramatically as I could scheme up) is above. According to 2 Kings, chapter 5, Naaman was a commander of the army of Aram. Naaman the Aramean was a commander of the armies of Hadadezer, the king of Aram-Damascus, in the time of Jehoram, King of Northern Israel (Samaria).
Biblical scholars believe that Naaman had some form of leprosy, and Elisha, a prophet of God, would tell him to go dip in the Jordan…and well, you’ve read the rest. In the last week, God has brought me back to this story and has had me stuck (partially due to my pastor, who knows who he is 😉) in this story, and as I lovingly told my Pastor, he “conned me into confession.”
Long story short, I’ve realized that I’ve let shame hold me for too long. My identity isn’t shame because I don’t get to label things I haven’t created. Now hear me: if your story is similar to mine, your path to healing may look different than mine, and I wouldn’t even say that I’m “healed” because we live in a fallen world, and we will never be healed until we reach the dance of eternity and as my armless torso will also remind me. I will always be in process and God in His Kindness, and through incredible men of God in my life, I’m learning that my brokenness isn’t something to run from but to run to God with. Now, I don’t think I’m out of the woods yet (and probably never will be), but what if the monsters turn out to be just trees and I’ve just mislabeled them as monsters to fear…and maybe you have too…
From The Desk of David 
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