The Journey

Running From The Pain

The decision to leave the Philippines wasn’t one I made lightly, but it felt like the only way to breathe again. The weight of betrayal had become suffocating, and every corner of my home reminded me of the life I had lost. I thought that distance might offer me a reprieve, that escaping to another place might be the cure for the memories that clung to me like shadows. So, I packed my bags and stepped onto foreign soil, hoping to outrun the pain.

When the opportunity to serve as a missionary abroad arose, I saw it as a lifeline. Here was a chance to bury myself in purpose—to pour my energy into something bigger than my own heartbreak. Ministry had always been my calling, and I believed that focusing on the needs of others would numb the ache inside me. As I immersed myself in the work, I convinced myself that I was strong enough to leave the past behind. But deep down, I knew the scars wouldn’t be so easily forgotten.

The mission field was vibrant yet demanding. My days were filled with outreach, teaching, worship, and service to communities that welcomed us with open arms. I worked tirelessly, throwing myself into every task as if the busyness could silence the turmoil within me. I smiled when I had to, led programs with conviction, and preached the love of God to those who were hungry for hope. Outwardly, I seemed unwavering—dedicated, capable, strong. But inside, I was still broken.

The scars of betrayal didn’t just linger; they shaped the way I interacted with everyone around me. Trust, once something I gave freely, now felt like an impossible risk. Every time someone extended kindness or friendship, I questioned their intentions. I built emotional walls so high that even those closest to me couldn’t climb them. Vulnerability felt dangerous, and I wasn’t willing to open myself to the possibility of being hurt again.

These walls weren’t just barriers—they were battlements. I used them to protect myself, but in doing so, I isolated myself from the people who wanted to share this journey with me. My fellow missionaries were kind and earnest, but I struggled to let them in. Instead of fostering genuine friendships, I kept them at arm’s length. Misunderstandings arose, and I often perceived their actions through the lens of my own mistrust. The loneliness that followed was both self-imposed and deeply painful.

In moments of solitude, I couldn’t escape the heaviness of my memories. The betrayal I had run from found its way into my heart, no matter how far I went. I replayed the scene in my mind—the sight of Brian and Jacky, the raw devastation of realizing the people I loved most had shattered my trust. The pain felt fresh even months and years later. My work in the mission field offered me purpose, but it couldn’t mend the fractures in my soul.

And yet, God didn’t abandon me. Even in my loneliness, He placed people in my path who reflected His grace. One of the greatest blessings of that season was the spiritual mother He sent into my life. She didn’t demand explanations or pry into my pain; instead, she stood beside me, offering quiet compassion and unwavering support. Her presence reminded me of God’s love—a love that persisted even when I couldn’t feel it. Slowly, she helped me see that running from the pain wasn’t the same as healing from it.

Through her encouragement and the whisperings of the Holy Spirit, I began to confront the walls I had built. It wasn’t an easy process, nor was it quick. Healing felt like peeling back layers of hardened skin, exposing wounds I didn’t want to face. But in those moments, God’s grace seeped in, softening the bitterness and fear that had taken root in my heart.

My time abroad was a paradox. I served others with passion, yet I struggled to connect with them deeply. I carried the scars of betrayal with me, but I also began to rediscover the truth of God’s faithfulness. The isolation I felt was undeniable, but so was His presence. In the quiet moments of prayer and reflection, I started to see that His love was constant—unshaken by my circumstances and more powerful than my pain.

Though the journey was far from complete, cracks began to form in my walls. God, in His patience, showed me that healing wouldn’t come from running away or hiding. It would come from surrender—from laying down my fear, my pride, and my pain at the foot of the cross. And while I wasn’t ready to fully let go, I began to trust that He was working in me, even in the midst of my brokenness.

Looking back, I see how the mission field shaped me in ways I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just a place of service; it was a place where God quietly worked on my heart, chipping away at the barriers I had built. Running from the pain didn’t save me—but it brought me closer to the One who could.