This morning, September 13, 2025, in my waking God-connection time, I was in Luke 8:19–39. And it felt as though God was reading my own story back to me.

 

In these verses, Jesus redefines family. He calms the storm. He heals the man filled with demons and then sends him home to testify. And as I read, I realized I was being invited to see my own seven-year journey reflected in his actions.

 

For more than seven years, I have carried a storm inside me—moving through grief, forgiveness, reconciliation, and many attempts at resolution. I tried again and again to handle it quietly, to protect the honour of those involved, and to find peace without bringing the full weight of it to others.

 

But storms do not disappear by silence. And Jesus never told us to stay quiet in the storm.

 

Anchors in the Storm

God often gives us small reminders of his presence, anchors that help us hold steady when life feels overwhelming.

 

Along the way, God gave me little anchors that reminded me to breathe and keep going:

 • A butterfly, reminding me that transformation takes time.

 • A turtle, reminding me that perseverance wins the race.

 • A starfish, reminding me that even one small act of care matters.

 • A heart, reminding me to take medicine  myself, and also offer medicine to others gently.

 • And a small token marked “Mom,” reminding me of family, love, nurture, protection, and belonging.

 

They may seem small, but when anxiety rises and my voice is likely to shake, these anchors steady me. They remind me that peace is possible, even in the middle of storms.

 

What Jesus Showed Me in Luke 8

Scripture does not just tell stories—it reads our stories back to us, inviting us into God’s truth.

 

In Luke 8, three truths leapt out to me as if Jesus himself were teaching me my own story:

 • Family is redefined: “My mother and my brothers are those who hear God’s word and obey it.” Family is not only blood; it is those who choose obedience to love. Family in Christ is marked by humility without hierarchy—by people walking side by side as equals in God’s love. With all as truly ordinary people – none above the other.

 • The storm requires a voice: When the storm raged on the lake, Jesus did not stay silent. He stood and rebuked the wind and the waves. Silence would have let the storm drown them. Speaking boldly for restoration and peace brought calm.

 • Healing becomes testimony: When the man was freed from demons, he begged to follow Jesus. But Jesus told him: “Go back to your family and tell them what God has done for you.” Healing was not only for him—it became testimony.

 

And in that moment, I was reassured: silence was not a viable an option for healing and restoration: Jesus directed testimony to the whole church as step three, and so although it was uncomfortable it was necessary.

 

Seven Years of Waiting

Sometimes God calls us to wait—not because he is absent, but because timing matters for healing to take root.

 

For years, I wrestled with timing. My therapist once told me my anxiety about time was holding me back. I wanted resolution quickly. But I had to learn that what is conceived in the heart is not always immediately ready to be born. Like pregnancy, it must grow until the moment of birth.

 

For seven years, I kept trying in private. I was like the disciples in the boat—bailing water, panicked, asking God, “Are you with me, or am I going to drown?” Then in February of this year, I finally sensed God saying: Now is the time. Speak peace the way I showed you in Matthew 18.

 

The Meeting That Changed Everything

And so in February of this year I began the process of accountability and restoration following the steps that Jesus recommended in Matthew 18. I sang and prayed and went often to my special place with God, fire, and water for restoration of peace as I moved through the steps of confrontation.

 

The eye of some storms reveal themselves in a single conversation, in that place where truth collides with denial and the full burden of avoidant silence is revealed. This was so for me.

 

After years of avoidant silence from leadership, I was finally granted one meeting, in the spring of this year, with two employees of the BC Conference, who told me that they were speaking on behalf of the local church and every level of administration above it.

 

I went into that meeting still hoping for a path forward, still believing that family—even in its brokenness—could find healing.

 

But their message was clear and heavy: the only response I would ever receive would come from the legal department, whose role was to pressure me into silence. Why? Because, as they said, “character is all we have.”

 

To name what had happened would be to question someone’s character, and that, in their eyes, was unacceptable.

 

I left that meeting carrying an impossible weight. How could I seek relief for my family’s distress while also protecting the honour of others? How could the body find healing if wounds were denied and hidden?

 

Why Silence Could Not Remain

Silence in the face of wounds is not peace; it is fear. True peace comes when truth is spoken, wounds are acknowledged, and healing is allowed to begin.

 

That meeting forced me to see that avoidant silence was not faithfulness. Protecting reputations while leaving wounds unaddressed is not love—it is fear. It turns the body of Christ into dry bones, polished on the outside but lifeless within.

 

Jesus never avoided wounds. He touched them. Healing came when truth was faced, not when it was hidden. And so, after seven years of delay, I finally obeyed. I wrote to the church not to shame, not to divide, but to bring wounds into the light where healing could flow.

 

Real family—humble, Spirit-filled family—cannot be built on hierarchy and fear. It can only be built on truth, equality, and love.

 

Choosing to Speak

Obedience is not about perfection—it is about courage to step forward when God says, “Now.”

 

I admit: I delayed too long because I was afraid. Afraid of what people would think, afraid of what it would cost, afraid of losing what little stability remained. And because I delayed, the storm raged longer than it needed to. I take responsibility for that.

 

But once I finally spoke, peace came. Since sending that email, on Friday, I have had conversations with people who reached out and shared their pain. Healing came. Possibility became visible for them. And I discovered again that accountability is not exposure. It is restoration. It is the Spirit of God breathing life into dry bones.

Like the man among the Gerasenes, I am grateful that I can testify with love that is honest and honours and protects: healing is possible, peace is possible, accountability is possible.

 

Family, Rebuilt

A church is not family because it says so—it is family when it lives so, without supremacy, with openness in humility and love – with hierarchy that is only about being responsible for safety.

 

True family is not held together by appearances or by reputation. It is formed when we hear God’s word and obey it—when we live not as people who would like to be family, but as those who actually choose to show up and live as family.

 

That is the future I hold onto: a body where wounds are acknowledged and tended, where leaders and members alike embrace humility without hierarchy, and where love—not fear—leads.

 

That is what I am building with those who are interested in building too.

 

And so I bless us, with patience. With love. With solidarity. And with the faith that the dry bones will live, because Jesus is still speaking peace to storms. And He has given us the authority to stand with faith and courage and command peace to reign as we share our stories.

 

Reflective Invitation

As you finish reading, I invite you to pause and ask yourself:

 1. Where are the storms in your own life, family, or community? Are you tempted to stay silent, and what would it look like to speak peace instead?

 2. What anchors has God placed in your path? The butterfly, the turtle, the starfish—what simple reminders steady you when fear rises?

 3. What would humility without supremacy, but with a hierarchy of responsibility for safety look like in your relationships or communities? How might equality in Christ transform the way you give and receive love?

 4. What testimony are you carrying? Like the man in Luke 8, what healing have you experienced that you are being called to share with others?

Take a moment to sit with these questions. Write, pray, or speak them aloud if you can. Healing becomes testimony when it is shared—and your testimony, too, can become peace for someone else’s storm.