Bringing Her Rest ~

​This is for anyone healing from something difficult.
It comes from a journal entry I wrote after a recent EMDR session. I have shared it with a few people who encouraged me to offer it to others who may feel lost or wonder why healing seems to take longer than expected.
This is an adaptation of what I wrote the next morning.
"I have loved you; now remain in my love."
God, thank you for these words.
Rescue me and all my parts that have grown weary of vigilance over the years. When I begin to drift from my truth, my worthiness, Jesus, show me the Father.
Rather than revisiting old wounds, I found myself moved into the protection of all the women I have been.
Here I am now, the wiser version of myself, able to comfort and mother the younger versions of me. I am the inner mentor to those younger selves, just as my older self will one day be to the woman I am now.
How amazing that is.
That girl was tired.
She had been beaten down by life more than once, and yet she kept getting back up.
I see her standing at different thresholds in her life, carrying burdens never meant for her to bear alone. She held fear. She held uncertainty. She held pain. She learned to stay vigilant, always watching for the next storm.
And now I am here to bring her rest.
One memory comes into focus.
I see her sitting quietly on a couch, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, stunned by words that cut deeper than anyone could see. Her heart races. Her body freezes. She struggles to understand how love and hurt can coexist in the same space.
For years she carried that moment.
For years she carried many moments.
But in this vision, something changes.
I place her here and now, in my beautiful, peaceful home.
I wrap my arms around her, and she melts into my chest.
I tell her that I love her.
More importantly, God loves her.
I take her by the hand and walk her into the guest room. It is quiet. Safe. Comfortable.
She sits on the bed and studies the photographs displayed around the room. Images of herself from childhood to womanhood. She reaches for the angel music box she received at birth and slowly winds the key.
A familiar melody fills the room.
"Lullaby and Goodnight."
She listens.
She smiles.
And for the first time in a very long time, she rests.
"You are home, sweet girl," I tell her.
"You are safe."
"You are loved."
"And we never have to go back there."