I opened my Bible to 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, which I had often prayed over in my ministry: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

“Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “please help me to show my wounds today, so that you may use them as a source of healing.”

It is never pleasant to relive the past when I share my testimony.  But I do it because God uses it to comfort others.  A hurting woman knows I understand her pain and suffering when she hears that I have been down the same road.  And when she receives healing from God, she will extend that same comfort to yet others so that the circle of wounded healers widens.

I’ll never forget the first time I shared a short testimony before a group of women at Phoenix First in the fall of 1990.  I had panicked at the thought of standing before the pastors’ wives and the matriarchs of the church and telling them even the briefest highlights of my sordid past.  I had been a Christian for only about eighteen months, and I still carried a dump truck size load of shame about my past sins, even though I knew God had forgiven me and completely changed my life—in fact, he had called me into full-time ministry.

They’re going to shun me, I thought.  They’ll talk about me, and I’ll never be able to hold my head high.  I’ll have to leave the church.  They think I’m the perfect little Christian, but when they find out. . .

On and on the accusing voice assaulted my mind.  My stomach was so tied in knots; I didn’t think I could go through with it.  I nearly backed out at the last minute, but I managed to battle my fear and honor my commitment to give a five-minute testimony.

I was petrified as I stepped behind the pulpit—the spot usually occupied by Tommy Barnett, one of the most respected pastors in America.  What an incredible honor.  Some one thousand women were in the audience, about six or seven hundred from the inner city and three or four hundred ladies from Phoenix First.  The lights were dimmed, so I couldn’t see their faces.  But I definitely heard them respond when I took the microphone and said, “From the time I was seventeen to the time I was twenty-one, I had five abortions.”  The loud gasps throughout the audience paralyzed me for a moment, but I finished my story and then sat down to listen to the other testimonies.  Well, now they know, I thought.  I wondered if anybody would even speak to me, or if they would just avoid me.

One of the first people I saw afterward was Marja Barnett, my pastor’s wife.  Phoenix Fist Assembly is a huge church, and as I recall, she had never spoken to me before, except perhaps to say hello.  This beautiful, gracious woman came over to me, kissed me on the cheek, and then clasped my hands.  “Oh, Lori, you poor thing,” she said in her lilting Swedish accent. “I never know you have such a horrible life—I can’t believe what you go through.  I’m so happy you are in our church.  I love you so much!”

I don’t remember exactly what she said after that.  All I know is that Marja’s love and acceptance flowed over my soul that day like a healing balm.  Now, eight years later, she had invited me to the Dream Center, and my heart’s desire was to extend the same encouragement to those who needed it.

(to be continued)

Becoming a Hope Craftswoman – Part 2
Becoming a Hope Craftswoman – Part 3