Clare

I grew up in a loving family, but I’ve often battled with low self-esteem. It came as a surprise to me a few years ago that God would be interested in healing this area of my life…

I had just read The Return of the Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen. The author meditates on Jesus’ parable and puts himself in the shoes of all three characters in the story: the young man returning to his father, the father himself who graciously welcomes him back, and the jealous older brother. He found things in himself to relate to all three. I was intrigued by this way of encountering God through meditating on a parable so I decided to give it a try, imagining myself as the returning younger son, just to see what would happen. I expected to get a deeper realization of the father’s love and of belonging to him as his daughter, I suppose. I didn’t expect what happened next.

I closed my eyes and visualized the scene: a large house, with steps leading up to the front door, and the father waiting there to welcome me with his arms spread wide. All I had to do was approach the house in my imagination, walk up the steps and allow this loving figure to give me a bear hug.

But as I tried to imagine myself doing that, I could only see myself rooted to the spot, and to my own surprise I burst into tears. Nothing inside me wanted to approach that fatherly embrace, and the more I tried to imagine doing it, the more I cried.

I was doing a part-time course so I had to drive to college that morning. I cried most of the way there, felt very subdued all day, and cried my way home again. I felt heavy and weepy. Some other images had come into my mind during the course of the day as I had constantly asked myself the question, ‘Why is this a problem? Why can’t I do it?’ If Jesus had been standing in the doorway, or anyone else for that matter, it would have been different. But something about the authority of that father figure, however welcoming he seemed, kept me at a distance.

That evening I wasn’t really able to focus on anything else, so I continued to pray and cry and try to understand why I didn’t want to go into my father’s house. Bizarrely, the question that surfaced in my mind was, ‘What if it’s like boarding school?’

When I was ten years old, I was sent to boarding school. My parents worked abroad and all three of us daughters were sent to the same school near my aunt’s home in Scotland. It was a traumatic time for me and long afterwards, even seeing a certain style of Scottish architecture could make my stomach turn sour. The house mistress was strict and uncaring, and the girls took turns to inflict psychological torture on each other after lights out (at least they did in my dormitory, and I gave as good as I got). For some reason this meditation-gone-wrong had turned into a vivid recollection of my first day at the boarding house. I was standing just inside the front door with my suitcase, feeling cold and empty inside, and completely and utterly alone.

I couldn’t shake this image from my mind and I was now praying simply that God would somehow cheer me up! But as I prayed I could only sob deeply. My husband came home and found me unable to hold a normal conversation with him, I was so distraught. I asked him to pray for me.

As we prayed it was like having a virtual, whirlwind tour of the boarding house. First the entrance hall; then a right turn into the junior common room with its rows of lockers; then out of that door and left into the cloakroom with the cubby holes for shoes and the toilets, then a right turn and upstairs to the dormitories. The carpets were thin, brown and scratchy underfoot, the wallpaper shiny and textured with flecks of what my sisters and I used to joke was vomit. I passed my first dorm, the shower room, the toilets where I used to hide to write my diary, the matron’s room, and on to the large dorm where I arguably spent my least happy year. This all took place in seconds and to me each part of the house was loaded with misery.

I tried to think of anything I could say to God about all this, and the only words I had for him were ‘How could you? If you are meant to be my loving father, how could you leave me so alone in this place?’ I didn’t feel angry with my parents, who hated the separation from us anyway. My anger was all aimed at God.

I didn’t say any of this aloud because I was still too busy crying, but finally I prayed, ‘This memory is so painful. If you can do anything to heal it, please do.’ I was glad of my husband’s presence because that triggered the most gut-heaving sobbing of all. It didn’t last long and it was quickly replaced with a sense of peace.

In my mind’s eye I was still upstairs outside the dormitories but this time, I was hanging on to Jesus’ hand. As I calmed down, I walked the corridors again, no longer alone. We went into every room together. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the carpets felt softer underfoot, but the sense of pain and trauma had completely vanished.

After that my mood lifted and I was able to enjoy the evening. Before I went to sleep that night I tried meditating again on the father’s house. It was easy. I could allow the Father to embrace me in the doorway, and I could go inside. The funny thing was, it still looked like the boarding house. It had to be a big house, because a lot of people live there; but it was a friendly place and no longer an institution. It was a place where I belonged and was loved.

That single day changed a lot in me, quite subtly; I am now able to relate to God as my father and I can remember my time at boarding school with something like affection. Most of all, though, I’ve gained this conviction that I belong in God’s family, that I have a place, that somehow it’s OK to be me. If I remember, I say to myself every morning, ‘Lord, today I choose to live in my Father’s house,’ and it seems to prevent the stressful feelings of insecurity and unworthiness that I can otherwise fall into.

I’m amazed at God’s healing power and the trouble he takes over just one of his children. I had no intention of seeking healing for this episode in my life, nor did I think I needed it. In his wisdom, though, God dug it up. I can see now that he has removed a stumbling block in my perception of him - as unloving - and of myself, as worthless and forgotten. All I knew at the time was that I reached out to God in a very simple way, and he healed me.

Jesus said, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would not have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.’ (John 14:1-2).

I believe this promise doesn’t refer to a time after we die, but that we have our own room, now, in our father’s house - the only place where we really belong. The next time you pray I challenge you to try approaching the Father, and his house, and see what happens.