It is quiet in this small comfortable room. There is a couch and an overstuffed chair. The lights are not bright but rather soft and casting a warm glow. Everything about this space is designed to put the occupants at ease. For the last year I have spent hundreds of hours in this small room. I have listened to thousands of stories in this room. Each story shared in this room is unique and beautiful and many are heartbreaking and tragic. In this room people find hope, peace, awareness and strength. They come into this room angry and broken and together we work toward healing. I truly became a counselor in this room. The previous 2 years I spent in a classroom learning what a counselor should know, but in this room I learned what cannot be taught in a classroom. I learned what it means to help another person grow and heal from things they never thought they could come back from. My heart is full as I sit in this room for the last time and think about the blessing it has been to become like this room, a safe place.
What does it mean to be a safe place? The answer is a little different for each of us. When I am struggling with worry and fear I find a quiet corner, a blanket, my beanbag chair and a fan. I pull the blanket over my head, turn on the fan to tune out the noise and pray until peace overcomes my fear and I often fall asleep. David says he can always tell how my stress level is by how much time I spend curled up with my blanket in my beanbag chair. But what makes this place safe? How is it any safer than my couch? My car? I find the answer in my history.
I first heard God speak to me while I was reading over an airconditioning vent as a child. It was the middle of July and burning hot. I took a blanket and pulled it over the vent and crawled inside. I took my flashlight and read the latest book I had checked out of the library. It was there I heard him speak and tell me I was here for a reason. I found myself reading more and more, searching the Bible and seeking answers to why my parents marriage was falling apart. The Bible yielded no answers as to what was causing my parents to fight but it did show me a father who was not like mine. In this quiet safe place I met my true father.
Eventually the situation got so bad that I stopped seeking God. My parents marriage turned dangerous and we moved away. I stopped reading in the quiet corner and started seeking comfort in hobbies, sports, friends, boys, food and put books and my heavenly father far from my mind. I accepted Christ when I was 13, but my priorities didn't change, I still sought solace in outward things. I wish I could say that this habit changed overnight when I accepted Christ but that was just not the case. I was so angry over what had happened in my home and blamed God for all that I had seen and gone through. I was sure he could not satisfy. If he couldn't keep my home safe, keep me safe, then what could he do?
This is a question anyone who has suffered a trauma asks. It is a valid question. It just doesn't get to the heart of the problem. We are broken and angry. He heals and reconciles. We are hurting and desperate. He comforts and meets our needs. He grieves with us. He has never left our side in every trial we face. The answers to the difficult questions may never come. But when I sit in the presence of Jesus those difficulties fade into the background. I see his love for me. I see him healing my heart as I place my pain before him. I see the lengths he went to to save me and am overwhelmed with peace. He is my safe place in a way that no one and nothing else is. I struggle daily with depending on his grace to live in his presence. But in those moments when I lean on him, he is my safe place. Then it doesn't matter what room I'm in, what matters is who is in the room with me.
