When my Oma died a year ago, she buried many secrets with her. Her secrets were hardened like rocks soaked in bitterness.

I wonder if she thought we would love her less if we knew them?

I can’t speak for everyone, but I can say I would have only loved her more. It would have helped me understand her. It would have probably made me proud of her. I would have had nothing but compassion for her. In her brokenness I would have found my own strength.

Many of you have encouraged me to write. What a blessing these words have been to me. Writing is something I have always enjoyed. I am most excited when the letters tapped out to form words, and then sentences and then creating ideas have responses (even by complete strangers) of “I so needed this today.” What a privilege it is to allow the inspiration of God in my soul to bring hope to another.

However, as I have begun writing I have found that in order to truly pen words that matter, I must stare into my own brokenness. The parts of my life where I am far from the hero, possibly even the villain and usually deeply wounded. The reality is that the broken places of our lives are the pieces that most bless others. They create an oasis for the ragged life-traveler, a place where they can find hope and courage to continue on.

I have found that where we allow the light of Christ to shine through and redeem these open wounds in our flesh, grace and love for others pours out.

I have found that where we allow the light of Christ to shine through and redeem these open wounds in our flesh, grace and love for others pours out. But it takes a mountain of courage, not only to speak out these deep secrets, but also to look them squarely on and agree that they are in fact a part of your story. It takes an ocean of faith to believe that confessing these truths will bring mercy and compassion.This promise is woven throughout the Scriptures. If we confess, He is faithful and just to forgive our sins. The bill is already paid, friends! He covers us in a banner of love.