Eight years of isolation and grief began to break when I read Aimee Byrd’s book – her words saved my life and renewed my faith.

Aimee Byrd is the first person who told me I wasn’t alone eight years into my isolation, devastation. Eight years picking yellow wallpaper in the room I’d been locked up. Paralyzed unable to find my own way out. A spiritual hostage to all I knew languishing in grief. My entire life blown up in one night.

With a few I’d loved and trusted with my whole heart who knew the intimate details of our abuse, Trauma, my Three Chord lifeline to which I clung accepting the crumbs they fed me. Disabled to see my own way out.

Women I loved feeding me lies men’s hearts were softening, growing, understanding of our plight. These growing their influence among the men who carried the keys. Desperately waiting my return to the rest of the House believing it was God’s.

Waiting years to be welcomed back into the arms of the elders’ wives I loved consumed with complicated grief. Untreated lifelong CPTSD and undiagnosed AuDHD keeping me stuck being told it was my fault for not fighting spiritual warfare inside me. Believing God too had cast me out of His House, Presence so connected was He to these I grieved becoming one.

Aimee gave me the key. Outright. She gave me the key to let my own self out. She is the first one in all the years of begging, pleading for help, to be seen midst our obliterated life, literally inside God’s House our ground zero, the physical location of our Trauma leading to the complete annihilation of our life, Hope, future, and belonging ~ to tell me I wasn’t alone.

With the few I was still attached to feeding us false hope of repair, breadcrumbing us, while we continued to bleed out in trauma after trauma after trauma. A false hope that kept us trapped in longing for what was never there. Christ’s actual Bride.

Aimee gave me the key to see I was far from alone. So disabled, so paralyzed was I, frozen in trauma, unaware AuDHD Burnout, spiritual despair, I could not lift my face from the dirt to know there were other victims. Hundreds inside the Church. Like me. Mine. Four years after she wrote the book that found its way into my feed.

One by one by one I read all the lies and flew out the room I was trapped as fast as I could leaving the shredded yellow wallpaper behind going No Contact with the entire community I’d languished over while disabled by the severe Trauma they caused me, and mine begging to be seen. And the few with all the details of our impact story telling me to keep fighting the good fight. Let go bitterness while feeding me vinegar and no Living Water to be found.

It is fitting that now in this part of my recovery, healing journey, I am listening to Aimee’s new book, Saving Faces.

I went to bed thinking about Christ’s bride. My trauma in terms of our collective. The distortions and cognitive dissonance of who exactly is Christ’s Bride.

Christ’s bride is bleeding. Violated, hurt, abused, weeping. Zion is falling to her knees begging for help. 

Everyone sees and no one cares. They don’t see her as His Bride. They see her as Jezebel. So they cast her out with no help believing their own righteousness. 

Everyone polishing the silver and doing the guest list of who’s invited and who isn’t. To the banquet on which they can’t wait to feast. 

Pressing their outer garments. Readying their lamps with faux oil believing whatever was sold them was real and theirs will shine bright. The day Jesus comes for His Bride.

Doing precisely what they are told. Believing obeying laws imposed perfectly would make them included on the list.

Ignoring the cries outside of those the hired shepherds cast out believing they, the shepherds, are real too. There to keep them safe. And they want nothing more than to stay safe.

These hired shepherds with all their power and influence gorging on more and more influence, collectively pursuing more while patting each other’s backs telling each other they alone are the elect few.

And so they will not stop at their quest for accruing more and more and more followers to do the same. Cast the lowly, the beaten, the oppressed out of their doors.

Christ’s Bride is bleeding and no one is offering a tourniquet. No one will answer the door.

Casting lots for who is the most pure to get a coveted seat at the table they believe is theirs.

Following hired shepherds telling them be pure and to shun anyone with crimson linens stained with blood. This place where only some are welcomed. 

Jesus weeping to see His Bride being ravaged, beaten and bruised by wolves in sheep’s clothing and their followers who keep claiming His Name.

All while His Bride is dying from the abuse she’s endured.

And Zion weeps. Begging for Jesus’ Return. Crying how long O Lord until you come for me. 

To save her from being stoned to death calling her filthy rags. 

Rags the stone throwers once wore. But have forgotten. They hated those rags so much now they hate those wearing them. They fear getting close.

Broken and bruised. Lowly. Oppressed. To whom they tell you’re not worthy of Christ. Not worthy like us dressed in white pressed linen. 

Flee from us you filthy rags, they cry, not knowing they are abandoning His Bride. 

Setting the banquet believing they are the elect readying their stomachs for the day Christ comes for His Bride.

Jesus help your broken Church and open eyes. May all be saved. Rescue Your Bride. In Jesus Name, I pray.

Thank you, Aimee, for giving me the key to my own recovery. Thank you for being Christ’s Bride. Helping me see I too am Christ’s Bride though ravaged and broken, I wasn’t alone. And God did not abandon. Relieving me of my despair. I can’t wait for Christ to return for His Bride to sit at His banquet table where all are accepted. With you.

Love,

Raya

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Your Seat At The Table