Sunday Morning Experience

By Sandra Jean Charite

I heard the pastor's voice rise with urgency as he called for an altar call, and I felt an undeniable pull to move down the aisle. Tears streamed down my cheeks, each one a testament to the emotions I could no longer contain. I heard a gentle voice urging me to forgive and surrender all my hurt and pain. I had built a wall around the turmoil inside me for years, but now that wall was crumbling. The pain that once paralyzed me transformed into a powerful opportunity for healing and renewal. 

I had been living with a heavy burden of unforgiveness that clung to me like a second skin, overshadowing my every thought. The pain I thought I had buried was nestled deep inside me, masquerading as a familiar companion. It was a pain that had cut deeply, leaving scars I believed had faded with time. I had convinced myself that I had triumphed over the heartache—the gut-wrenching betrayal and haunting memories—but whenever I stumbled upon reminders or heard their names whispered in conversation, an overwhelming urge to scream surged within me, fierce and unyielding. 

My chest would tighten as if an invisible weight pressed relentlessly on my heart, cruelly reminding me that the wounds went far more profound than I ever dared to acknowledge. It felt as though I was trapped in a cage of my own making, with each attempt at vulnerability thwarted by the ghostly whispers of past hurts. The thought of opening my heart to anyone or forging new friendships became terrifying, as I feared the possibility of being wounded all over again. The walls I built around myself felt like a protective fortress, yet deep down, I knew it was a prison isolating me in my sorrow. 

This experience left me feeling so wounded that the thought of opening my heart to anyone again became unbearable. It was as if a heavy curtain had fallen between me and the world, sealing off the possibility of forming new friendships. Whenever I considered reaching out or letting someone in, a wave of fear washed over me, whispering that I would only face disappointment or rejection. The warmth of companionship felt like a distant dream, overshadowed by vulnerability and the worry that I might get hurt again. 

The anguish I had held inside felt like a festering wound—raw and exposed, desperately seeking the light of understanding and relief. I was surrounded by voices—well-meaning friends and family—echoing phrases like, “Just get over it,” “You're too sensitive,” or “What they did wasn’t that serious.” Yet those words felt like jagged stones thrown into the deep well of my sorrow, creating ripples that only deepened the pain lodged within my core. It was a hurt resonating in every fiber of my being, a reminder that some scars run more profound than the eye can see. 

My Savior gathered my tears, nurturing my strength. I stood at the altar, a wave of emotions crashing over me, indifferent to the curious glances and whispered conversations of those around me. They knew me as the one who always seemed to have it all figured out—the one who wore a mask of spiritual confidence with ease. Yet beneath that polished exterior, I felt a profound weariness, tired of pretending I was healed when, in truth, I was carrying the weight of silent suffering deep within my soul. 

The air was thick with expectation, but all I longed for was the freedom to be completely transparent before my Father, unencumbered by the façade I had maintained for far too long. I yearned to connect with God in a raw and genuine way, free from the shackles of my hidden pain. I wanted to lay bare my struggles and vulnerabilities, to finally step into the light—not just for myself, but to be wholly available to God without any hindrance, embracing the actual healing process.