This is the journey of my soul – from Mara’s grief and pain to Raya’s grace and redemption where healing and hope are found.
Raya: Hebrew for Friend, Companion
Faith: All you need is a single mustard seed. Even a crushed up one will do. Matthew 17:20
Two years ago I would have asked you to call me Mara. Hebrew for Bitter. Here is the Scripture verse in NIV. “Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.“ Ruth 1:20 Naomi had lost her husband and sons. For different reasons than Naomi, the name Mara resonated with me for well over a decade. Bitter in grief and loss and pain that scorched my skin raw with too many open wounds to count.
In my bio, I mention I have CPTSD. I’d also tell you if you could see all my invisible scars, me standing before you, I’d be completely disfigured, unrecognizable. In a way that makes me love my Jesus more and dare to hope to trust Him a little more with all my scars.
It reminds me of the Scripture, “Just as there were many who were appalled at him— his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any human being and his form marred beyond human likeness—“ hanging on the cross in plain suffering sight. Isaiah 52:14 Jesus who knows what it feels like to have his wounds and scars exposed, to be disfigured in the literal sense. For all to see; All for us. Lowly. Afflicted. I didn’t always connect these dots. My journey back to my Jesus being trusted Friend & Companion, Fellow Sufferer has been a long one.
He recently gave me a vision of all my scars glimmering gold in the shining sunlight, Jesus sitting next me to on the beach. My scars transformed before my eyes into something I now consider beautiful no longer ashamed.
For some, for many, our lashes are all on the inside providing the perfect plausible deniability for those doing the lashing and those looking away. All cloaked in superior spirituality causing countless additional scars upon scars upon scars layered in excruciating pain done in “Jesus’ Name”. Cognitive dissonance of the worst kind its poison penetrating not just mind but soul confusing and distorting our very perception, intimacy, relationship with God Himself and ourselves. This the greatest pain of all in the two most important relationships one can have on earth: with Self and Creator, Savior. Trauma that cuts past bone and marrow and heart to one’s most sacred, intimate parts leading to identity crisis and endless dark nights of the Soul.
Spiritual abuse. If the trauma is severe enough with consecutive traumas to follow including trauma worse than the original, that is the secondary trauma of being blindly, willfully, stubbornly with malice unseen, unheard, unacknowledged, it can lead to Complex PTSD packaged with chronic dissociation and despair so great, suicidal ideation on repeat.
No Living Water offered by those representing and claiming Jesus’ Name. Not to tend gaping wounds. Not to wash bruised and blistered feet. Not to drink. Marah. Bitter water. After wandering the dry, parched desert with Moses, 23 When they [the Israelites] came to the oasis of Marah, the water was too bitter to drink. So they called the place Marah (which means “bitter”). Exodus 15-16
For many of us who suffered inside illusionary sanctuaries we thought were a Refuge, an oasis from outside trouble and harm known as The World, we cry Marah. The World for which we were to fear where Satan prowls like a roaring lion looking for prey, told us in our homes and family minivans loudly over trusted talk radio with rapt ear. Running through our core we want desperately to honor the Lord while raising our little flocks.
Patriarchal sanctuaries with elders wearing 9 Marks pins on their lapels promising benevolence. Letting their congregations they expositor-ally claim God’s authority over know they were the men to trust to protect us guarding our oasis of Promised Living Water to quench our souls with safety from the roaring lion prowling outside. Our trusted oasis a mere mirage turned to Marah, undrinkable bitter water.
The roaring lion roaming free inside God’s House well fed devouring his prey without consequence. No tourniquet, triage, repair offered let alone Living Water. Only Marah and a blind eye. Left for dead. You and yours. No empathy to be found. There is no greater desperation of the soul than to be begging for Living Water from those preaching it from the pulpit and pews next to you only to be offered toxic bitter Marah so potent it kills your very soul leaving you wishing you were dead instead, the suffering anguish of rejection, shunning, withholding too great to exist another day.
But for my Jesus whispering to my wanting to die Self, “You don’t go to church to die. Live.”
Since that last day in Marah, my Jesus has given me a new name. Raya. It didn’t happen over night. I wish I could tell you it was that easy as a gentle whisper from the Lord and all my CPTSD was instantly healed. The irony of my new name being Raya meaning friend, companion is I have no friends.
Jesus. The most faithful and trustworthy of them all.
For those who are reading and weary, take my hand as we seek to reclaim our Selves and our Faith with Jesus who never leaves nor forsakes us. From here, I leave the darkness of what brought me to living with CPTSD to my memoir writing, while you and I walk into the Light ✨ seeking Jesus in our healing day by precious day and tiny step by tiny step through the coming year.
Hold tight to your mustard seed and let’s start healing, growing, burning bright. Today. Together. With Jesus our Friend and Faithful Companion guiding our steps along the way.
Love,
Raya
The Gentle Rise 