Ten years ago, I attended something called The Story Workshop. Hosted by The Seattle School of Theology and Psychology, it was a four-day gathering of about 100 people. Before we got there, each of us wrote a story from our childhood and received feedback. I don’t remember the exact prompt, but it resulted in stories that were meant to illustrate a childhood trauma. They spanned from the death of a pet to the death of a parent. Based on the feedback, we rewrote our story and brought it with us. For example, when I wrote my story, the feedback I remember was, “You write this from the view of 30,000 feet.” Meaning, I kept the emotions in the story at arm’s length and chose not to enter into what my six-year-old self felt.

Throughout our time together, we sat in lectures and then met with a small group several times. In the small group, we each took turns reading our story out loud, and the other members gave us feedback about what they heard.

Here’s what the feedback WASN’T. It wasn’t feedback about our syntax. They didn’t review our writing skills. We were sharing personal stories, and there was no place for that. It also wasn’t supposed to be advice, like “Your mother’s alcoholism was a disease.” or anything that minimized what the child experienced. We were only to reflect to the reader what we heard based on their words alone.

After the feedback that I wrote my story from 30,000 feet, I went the other direction and wrote the story as dramatic as I could imagine. I ended up dragging my listeners through a story that was designed to shock. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it still kept my trauma at arm’s length for me.

And yet, they heard what I couldn’t in my story. My small group listened to the horror and shattering that my six-year-old soul experienced. And even though I wasn’t capable at the time to receive their shock, compassion, and reflections, I did tuck their feedback away. I never forgot about it.

I look back on my time there and see how difficult it was for me to hear and know my own story during that time. I wasn't able to tell myself the truth about how the combination of Jesus’s crucifixion and the discipline of a child was traumatic and horrifying. I wasn't able to admit it until Rachel Held Evans hosted her series in 2013 on spiritual abuse. Christians were beginning to talk about the fallout of authoritarian, patriarchal, and one-verse theology that drove parenting seminars throughout the church for decades, if not longer. Part of what this theology teaches is that young children must be disciplined harshly “with the rod,” and it’s what the Bible, therefore God, commands. It is believed, even today in many Christian circles, that to parent with that theology is what saves children’s souls from death. Somehow, when Rachel hosted the series in her blog, I finally experienced the watershed of emotions about how much the story I shared at The Story Workshop informed my life. I could finally admit that my childhood innocence and peace splintered because I was disciplined this way, based on the church’s teachings. I did the same thing to my firstborn, too, though thankfully, not connected to the crucifixion or explicitly teaching him about his “sinful nature.” But he was disciplined too harshly because I thought I had to.

I wish I could tell you the specific story I shared at The Story Workshop. But one of the other characters in the story asked me not to share it publicly. It’s hard to honor. Being able to write our stories down despite the other characters is so essential to our healing. Having our trauma witnessed is also key to it.

So many children I know have been wounded and traumatized by this theology. I’ve said it before, but I will spell it out again. Do not teach children about the execution method of the Roman Empire. Then we tell them it happened to the person they offer up their childhood prayers to. THEN we tell them that the crucifixion occurred because they did what children do like tell a lie, steal a cookie, or hit their brother. It horrifies them. Terrifies them. On top of all that, we add corporal punishment, telling them as we apply our hands to them violently, that “it hurts me more than it hurts you.” Now their “sin” has killed Jesus and hurt their parents. What childhood soul recovers from this?

Where we are wounded is where our most significant capacity for compassion and helping others comes. Our passions and missions in life grow from the place of our greatest hurts. That’s what The Story Workshop taught me. You might have heard people quote the poet Rumi, “The wound is where the light enters you.”

Little brings me more satisfaction than to help others, especially those who come from an oppressive religious setting, to feel released. What do I mean? I want to help others say, “This is the story that ruled my life, and I can’t live like this anymore.” We can be free when we tell our stories. To be able to stand up to powers that be and speak and write what scares us is terrifying and must happen. We need to be able to tell our stories without sugar-coating them or for shock value, but to tell our stories with honesty instead in a way that provides us personal transformation. Nothing means more to me. I have seen it change lives; my own, and those I love.

How do you need to Release Your Story to say and live what’s true, but scary? I can help. Let’s work together. Here’s a list of my current offerings that I’m updating all the time. I would love to listen to and help you release your story.

Take care. And be free.