A unique series of events brought me to a small stone house in the middle of a desert one hot summer day. The old cottage was tired but intriguing with its sagging, dusty floors, shabby furnishings, and curtains that crumbled when touched. With the air of a good poker player holding cards close to the chest, the structure made me wish the walls could talk.

The home's caretaker, Gina, was as unreadable as the house. After offering a nonchalant warning about the prolific rattlesnakes on the property, she settled quietly into a worn out recliner in the corner of the living area. Surprised that she seemed entrenched for the day, I busied myself with my tasks, helping feed a small film crew as they worked. As the morning wore on, Gina mostly observed without comment as people (including two of my grown sons) came and went to cool off between filming scenes in the blazing heat.

At lunchtime, I offered her some food. Afterward, the two of us were alone for a longer stretch. We sat quietly at first as the fan whirred, stirring the dirt on the floor, until she surprised me by remarking that she liked how I cared for my kids. Watching us seemed to act as a key, opening the door to an incident from her teen years. Not sparing details, she relayed the horrific crime that happened when she was just 15 years old. The aftermath was almost more traumatic than the event itself, changing the trajectory of her life.

I don’t recall exactly how I responded at first; I tried to hold the story gently, to show the compassion I felt while also recognizing a boundary – I couldn’t fix this, nor was I meant to. I settled on saying that I didn’t know if she believed in God, but I would pray for her. She seemed to like that.

Hours later, work completed, I said goodbye to Gina. Driving away, I wondered if she regretted telling me, a total stranger, something so personal and painful. I marveled at the powerful human compulsion to share with others – even someone we don't know – when carrying heavy burdens or processing bone-deep pain.

Whether we like it or not, our experiences are stored inside us, and sometimes, when we least expect, they bubble up and pour out. Maybe expressing them helps reduce the space they occupy in our bodies, minds, and souls. Or perhaps relating our stories to others is one way to help integrate our experiences and pursue wholeness.

Even when we don't verbally share our stories, instead locking them like secrets in a trunk, they tend to tell themselves, seeping out in ways we never anticipated: in behaviors, feelings, or relational problems (especially with those closest to us). Or they overflow into the night, robbing us of rest. Sometimes they reveal themselves in escapist behaviors.

Whether held tightly within or seeping out like blood from a wound, our stories will be told one way or another. What do we do with them all?

Although there are legitimate risks to over or under-sharing with others in our attempts to process our lives, doing either is not our biggest problem. The biggest problem we have is under-sharing with God. Why do we trust others, even total strangers, with our heartaches and pain rather than seeking Him? Deep down, do we truly believe God can heal us? Do we doubt that He will forgive us when we sin or heal the damage caused by the sins committed against us? Do we think others have more power to help us than God?

If asked before I met Gina that day in the desert, I would have answered that I don't have these doubts. But having given it a lot of thought since then, I see that my behaviors have sometimes told a different story. How many times have I phoned a friend or vented to my husband before talking to God? How often have I spent only minutes in prayer but hours with a counselor? How many days have I ruminated endlessly on problems or pain without praying at all?

Jesus did things differently. When He faced the most challenging days of His life, Jesus went off alone and prayed, sometimes all night. Even when He faced imminent crucifixion, Jesus spent the night praying near friends. He prayed all the time – alone and with others. Jesus modeled prayer as a recourse for processing and healing.

Although God often uses trustworthy people to facilitate our growth and wellness, no one is a substitute for Him. People who point us to God and help carry our burdens or trained professionals and pastors who impart godly insight and wisdom can be instruments of progress. But no one, not even the best friend or counselor, can shape all the raggedy, sharp edges of the past into a healthy whole. No one can bring good out of even the worst parts. Only God can do these things.

When we begin to overshare with God everything He already knows, that is the moment we can start to experience healing in the deepest parts of ourselves. And He doesn't condemn us for our stories; instead, God shows infinite compassion and patience. He gently unknots the jumbled mess and torn threads of our lives and weaves them into something far better, maybe even something beautiful. He doesn't just offer solutions to try; He is the solution.

In prayer, we stop striving to fix ourselves and ask God to do the work. When we stop stuffing, hiding, spewing, and running, that's where we finally find rest and feel hope dawning like a new day. Though God may use many ingredients in the process, He is the essential one.

Our paths will intersect with all kinds of people each day, as mine did with Gina. We can tell them our stories, or hold them tightly to our chest, maybe experiencing some healing in community or not. But we will never be fully healed until we bring our stories to God and trust Him with them.

I don't know if oversharing her story with me helped Gina that day, but I hope so. Unexpectedly, she helped me, because she made me see how often I turn to everything but water to quench my thirst. And how like God to bring me to a desert to remind me where to find the water.

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photo credit: Markus Distelrath on Pexels