On a Texas-hot summer afternoon, not too long after I got married, I made an oops-I-forgot-eggs grocery store run. I was on the phone with Mitch as I wiggled out of the car. One hand held the phone to my ear while the other opened the door, a carton of eggs wedged between my arm and chest—ambitious, I know. I probably should have waited to get out of the car until we hung up. But, to my surprise, I made it out with all twelve eggs intact. 

Or so I thought. 

When I returned to my car the next morning, I saw an egg-size mass by my door. I got closer to confirm that this was, in fact, the lone victim of my dozen eggs. It was cracked up and slightly disgusting, but I was in a hurry, so I figured it would move, get taken care of, or magically disappear (how I don’t know, but it’s what I thought, ha). 

Surprisingly, though, the egg didn’t move. No one else came to clean it up. It rested in the blazing sun, baking and crusting over, cooling off at night only to sizzle again the next morning. The first time I saw it, I made a conscious effort not to step on it. Then I went out of town. The next time I walked up to my car, I fumbled with my keys, desperate to get in the AC and out of the heat. 

Crunch. 

I crushed the egg and stomped my foot on the concrete, attempting to scrape the fragments of runny egg and brittle shell off my shoe. 

While I am sorry to paint this less-than-delicious picture for you so vividly, it served me—and now maybe both of us—an important lesson.

If we don’t handle our past traumas and do the diligent, hard work of healing, we will keep stepping in those wounds. And the more life we live, the messier they will get, and the more we will track them around with us, leaving residual hurt and pain everywhere we go.

The reason I believe healing our past hurts is so important is that we don’t just leave the stinky, rotten fragrance in our own cars—we stomp it onto the hearts of the people we love most. We may not mean to, and we may even try not to, but we will inevitably leave those marks on their lives, too. While they are responsible for their emotions and reactions, we are also responsible for our own. 

We must ask ourselves some honest questions:

• What do we want our closest relationships to look like?
• How do we want to love, support, and show up for our closest people?
• Are we able to show up for them in those ways right now?
• If the answer is no, it may mean we have some work to do. 

I don’t think any of us want horrible, tense, painful, stuck-in-the-mud relationships, but unless we ask Jesus to help us move through our pain, our behaviors and patterns will automatically and inherently be stuck in a trauma response.

Healing from trauma is one of the sweetest gifts the Lord can give us. It’s a gift not everyone receives. And we get to choose if we pursue healing from it or not. The redemption, renewal, and new life we experience as He leads us to green pastures is a sight to behold, a treasure to cherish, and an intimacy found no other way than asking Him to wade through the waters with us.

The process of getting well is absolutely a gift to us, but it’s also a gift to our people. It’s a gift to our spouses or someday spouses. To our friends and our families. To our coworkers and the cashiers we encounter at the store when we hurriedly buy a carton of eggs. 

Not only will we be able to love them authentically, more wholly, and more sweetly—albeit still imperfectly—but they will get to witness the miracle of redemption in our lives. They will get to see the Holy Spirit awaken our dry bones and revive life, freedom, and joy inside of us. It may be hard or feel uncomfortable at times (okay, it most certainly will be hard and uncomfortable at times), but letting them into the journey of how the Lord sews and stitches our broken hearts back together, one day—one minute—at a time. It’s an extraordinary experience. A heavenly blessing. A gift they will most certainly cherish, too. 

God promises us He won’t waste a single second of our pain. Sometimes sharing our faith means talking about Jesus with someone who doesn’t know Him yet, and sometimes it means being vulnerable and letting our people into the ever-evolving ways He’s working in our souls, shining a spotlight on the specific, personal ways He’s helping, sustaining, and guiding us. Those testimonies of faith build up His name and glory in just as powerful of ways as sharing the gospel story. Because the truth is, this is our gospel story. This is our story of moving from death to life. From pain to delivered promises. From grave to garden—heck, grave to bursting, lush meadow overflowing with wildflowers. 

And I want that for you, friend. I want you to have the wildflowers, not the rotten egg. The choice is yours, and the healing’s waiting for you. He’s ready when you are.