The archeology of words, the archeology of my heart.

Healing comes in a variety of ways. Doctors assist us when we have a serious virus or disease as well as minor ailments. Physical therapists can analyze torn ligaments and muscles and proscribe a series of exercises and stretches in order to encourage repair and strength. It can be said—and is said I’m sure—that America is incredible when it comes to healing sickness and repairing the body. But there is a type of ailment many, if not all, of us face that is often overlooked: the healing and nurturing of our soul.

I know psychologists and counselors can, to varying degrees, help clear away hurdles that impeded this kind of process. But there comes a point where we have to able to do the substantive work on our own; that in the same way we will change a diet or do exercise to encourage our body to fight sickness and repair its self, we have to find similar ways to do the same for the deeper sensibilities and sensations of our humanness. For me, writing became that very thing.

It was the end of 2005 when my world collapsed. Six months earlier, I had packed up my car and a close friend and drove across the country to be a part of a ministry training school. It was the first substantial decision I had made on my own—much to the chagrin of my family. Instead of taking the typical road of graduating from college and getting a job I, along with 30 others who would be my peers at the school, decided to take a different path. It was exciting. The adventure was palpable. I would be remiss if I did not mention that I had some reservations, but I hid them and went for it. There was something intriguing about ministry, something meaningful in being able to offer help to someone in a different way. But three months into the program everything changed.

In the third month it was revealed that important leaders had been found in infidelity, money had been unethically handled and stewarded, and that particular points of theology and practice were cult-like. There was a part of me that felt vindicated as my hidden reservations dealt with some of these points, but vindication did not prevail--confusion and shame did. It was the first major decision of my post-undergraduate life and it was crumbling right before my eyes. A chaotic fog surrounded what I believed to be a genuine curiosity and interest in the vocation of ministry, and shame in that the cautionary notes I received from my family and certain friends had not been taken more into consideration. But this is life. We make decisions and we live with their fruit.

Myself, along with several close friends, managed to keep sane the last three months of our time at the school. But when I arrived back home that December I was challenged and troubled on how to move forward. Shame kept me from talking with family and others who might have helped. The pastors and leaders that had counseled me to go to the ministry school were gone. I was left alone, hurting and extremely discouraged. So I started to write.

I do not consider myself a great writer. I never have. I remember the first paper I wrote in ninth grade didn’t even get a grade it was so bad. But despite my inabilities, I enjoyed just putting my thoughts on paper—normally without a single punctuation (or with too many commas as my wife would say). It didn’t matter. To allow my thoughts to run free was liberating. But with the reality I was facing, I needed more than liberation. I needed a whole new view and purpose for my life. It was not easy to get back into writing at first, but what came out was pure. There is honesty in my old journals. Some of the ink is smeared because of tears and there are coffee stains from the long hours in Nashville’s various coffee joints. Anger leaps off the pages, as does a young man’s mourning. However, my journal became a safe place. It was where I could escape to find myself. It was within the pages that I found my voice; it was within the pages I found healing.

Today we see words used to create mobs or rally supporters. We witness words used to cut people down and silence dissenters. But I have known words to do something far more powerful: provide ointment to a hurting and confused heart. Writing has been like the archeologist’s chisel and brush that continues to clear away the dirt and sediment that keeps me from loving God, people, and myself. The words in my journals are magnifiers of what I am and guides to what I want to be. It was writing that helped turn my life 5 years ago and it is writing that continues to be the safe place for me to be honest, reflective, and vulnerable.

I know what it is like to experience troubling and confusing periods in life. One of the best reflections I can give is to try writing about it. It might be uncomfortable at first but it gets easier. You may even struggle with what to write, but the more you try, the more the words will come. You may even find that you long for more opportunities to write a few lines. In time, you, too, may find your journal with the ink running because of your tears and the pages carrying the slight hint of coffee from the visits to your local coffee shops.

Peace.