His House: Chapter 8 – The Unforgiven | Story & Reflection

In The Unforgiven, the aftermath of war reveals wounds deeper than flesh — the kind that pride, blame, and righteousness refuse to let heal. As the narrator moves through the broken remnants of belief, she discovers that true forgiveness is not granted by words, but by surrender. This parable invites reflection on the cost of holding pain and the quiet courage required to release it.

Background music by Liborio Conti.

Transcript

Welcome to His House,

A parable of spiritual intimacy,

Written by me,

Judy Boozer.

This story is a parable,

A spiritual journey,

Told through metaphor,

Inviting you beyond information and into experience.

This chapter in specific explores pain,

Loss,

And renewal,

And includes vivid descriptions that may feel emotionally intense.

Please take your time and listen with gentleness.

Before we begin,

I want to share a brief note about language.

Throughout His House,

God is presented using masculine pronouns.

This isn't because I believe God is male,

But because,

As a woman,

I wanted to capture the experience of intimacy with a being whose thought process and essence felt entirely different from my own.

To do that,

I chose the other side of the human duality,

Masculinity,

To represent the divine within this story.

My hope is that,

Regardless of gender,

You hear beyond the words,

Into the relationship,

The longing,

And the love that the story reveals.

Each chapter opens a window into the soul's walk toward the divine,

A walk that moves through symbols,

Emotions,

And revelation.

To fully enter this journey,

It helps to begin not with the mind,

But with the heart.

These moments aren't meant to be hurried or analyzed,

They're meant to be felt.

So before we begin chapter 8,

The Unforgiven,

We'll take a few quiet moments together to slow down,

Breathe,

And become present,

Body,

Mind,

And spirit,

So that you can experience the story,

Rather than simply hear it.

Take a slow breath in through your nose,

And release it gently through your mouth.

Let your shoulders soften.

Let your jaw unclench.

Let the pace of your day begin to fall away.

Feel the support beneath you,

The ground,

The chair,

The earth.

You are safe here.

You are held.

Another slow,

Deep breath in.

With each breath,

Let your awareness move closer to this moment.

Closer to stillness,

Nothing to prove,

Nothing to produce,

Just this space to be.

Now imagine yourself standing on a quiet path.

The air around you is calm,

Almost expectant.

Somewhere ahead there's a soft light,

A glow you can't quite see clearly yet,

But it calls to something deep within you.

This light,

This call,

Is the beginning of your journey to his house.

Breathe deeply again,

And as you do,

Let go of whatever might distract you,

The noise,

The planning,

The worries,

The waiting.

Let them rest beside the path for now.

Whisper inwardly,

I am here.

I am listening.

I am ready.

Stay with that readiness for one more slow,

Deep breath.

Now gently,

Let's begin chapter 8,

The Unforgiven.

After the night that war was declared,

Things began to settle down.

Two days later,

I asked him if he thought it was safe for me to go see the damage.

He assured me that I would be safe,

So I grabbed my sweater and my medicine bag and walked through the woods to the corner,

Where the site used to be.

There was no happy singing group there any longer.

The sign with a gyrating arrow pointing to the path to God's house was nothing more than a half-burnt stub of a post sticking up from the ground.

All around could be heard the quiet moaning of hurt people.

Behind the stubby sign stick was a group of three people sitting on the ground,

Huddled together.

I went to them.

As I neared them,

I could see the burns on their hands and arms and dried blood around the tears in their clothes.

Their faces,

However,

Were covered as they clung to each other for both warmth and comfort.

Are you all right?

I asked,

Moving to them.

Who,

What,

Who's that?

One said as they bunched together.

I saw the burns on his face as he tried to look around.

His eyes were raw and damaged.

I realized that he couldn't see.

I knelt in front of him and put my hand on his shoe,

Which seemed to be the only part of him that wasn't visibly hurt.

I said gently,

I am from his house.

I traveled through this area not too long ago.

Perhaps you remember me.

No one travels to his house,

The man spat.

You're obviously lying.

You're one of them,

Aren't you?

Have you come back to finish the job?

I'm not sure what you mean.

I truly am from his house.

He sent me with medicine and authorized me to care for the wounded in his name.

Likely story,

One of the man's companions said,

Lifting her face in my direction.

I could see that she also had burns that had damaged her eyes.

We won't be taken advantage of.

You can tell your superiors that.

Don't you want me to try to help you?

I have medicine here that will heal your wounds.

Heal our wounds?

Absolutely not.

We want those followers of a false gospel to see what they've done to us.

They should see how they've wounded the disciples of the true God.

The third companion shouted the last part out a random direction.

His eyes were also burnt and bloody.

I looked around to see who he might mean and saw two people huddled together on the other side of the road,

Wearing some sort of religious garments.

I went to them.

Perhaps I can help you.

What nonsense are you talking?

There's no healing for this type of injury.

As long as those followers of the false God exist,

We'll be outcasts in our own land.

They alone bear the responsibility for our injuries.

We can't be healed until they're sorry for the damage they've done.

And I don't mean just pretending to be sorry.

They have to be really sorry.

I stood up and stepped away,

Confused by the hatred that so consumed both groups that they would rather be wounded and in pain than give up their rights as martyrs.

To my right,

I heard a small sound.

It almost sounded like a whimper,

But I didn't see anyone,

So I almost missed it until I heard it again.

There was no mistaking it this time.

I jumped into the ditch on the side of the road and found a young woman holding a baby to her chest.

She looked in my direction with one eye,

And I could see that the other had a gash across it.

Please,

She said.

You said you have medicine?

My eyes filled with tears and my fingers fumbled for my bag.

Yes,

Yes,

I do.

Right here.

Let me help you.

I put the balm of Gilead on her face,

And almost immediately it began to heal.

The redness and puffiness began to go down.

She held out her baby,

And I could see that it was gray.

I realized that her child had died,

And she didn't know or wasn't ready to believe.

Please help me.

She said with hope and desperation in her face.

My heart sank.

I think I didn't have medicine for this.

I had medicine for healing,

Not bringing back the dead.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I looked up.

It was him.

This can be healed in my house,

He said.

I turned to the young woman.

We have what your baby needs,

But not here.

You'll need to come with us through the valley of the shadow of death to his house.

It won't be easy,

But he can heal your child there.

Will you come?

A sob tore from the depths of her chest.

You can heal her there?

You're sure?

I'm sure,

I said,

Not even looking at him.

I already knew that if he said he could heal it,

He could heal it.

He didn't need to impress anyone with claims he couldn't deliver.

I stood to help her out of the ditch.

She stumbled,

But I held on to her.

I could see that her leg was hurt by the way she walked,

So we moved slowly.

As we walked toward the valley of the shadow of death,

He turned to me and said,

You stay here and look for others who are willing to accept your help.

I'll take her from here.

I'll return when there are others who need help to my house.

They won't accept my help.

Many won't,

Because they're more attached to being right than they are to being whole.

They've turned being wounded into a badge of spirituality,

Not realizing that their woundedness is a memorial to their ego.

They could be whole,

But they'd have to give up their status as victims,

And they'd rather be victims.

However,

There are some who are tired of being hurt and just want it to stop,

No matter what the cost.

Help them,

And let the rest wallow in their martyrdom.

I must admit,

It stung a little not to be allowed to return with him,

Even though I understood why.

The journey to the valley of the shadow of death is one that must be made alone with him,

Not with others.

Even still,

I felt rejected just a little as I turned back to the used-to-be signpost.

Suddenly,

I heard his voice from within me,

So close and intimate.

How could I reject you?

You're a part of me,

A part of me that I trust to act on my behalf.

You're the me I've sent into this situation.

Be me here.

Before we close,

Take a slow,

Steady breath.

When the echoes of battle fade and the wounded voices quiet,

What remains is the silence of choice,

The space where healing and ego part ways.

The unforgiven invites us to look gently at the ways we protect ourselves and protect our pain instead of allowing it to be transformed.

Before moving on,

Take a deep breath and let yourself settle into stillness.

Let the story begin to work on you.

Sometimes it's easier to hold on to our pain than release it,

To build identity around what hurt us rather than what healed us.

We wait for others to repent and be sorry before we allow peace to enter,

Not realizing that the waiting itself keeps us bound.

The characters who refused the balm weren't being punished.

They were choosing the comfort of blame over the courage of surrender.

We do this too when we insist that forgiveness must be earned,

When we wait for justice before allowing joy.

Yet there is another way to become like the young mother in the ditch,

Weary,

Broken,

And still willing to hope,

To let our heartbreak carry us toward healing instead of making it our home.

As you reflect,

Invite honesty without shame.

Healing isn't about judgment,

It's about willingness,

The willingness to stop worshiping the wound and start walking toward wholeness.

Without judgment,

Ask yourself,

Where in my life have I found comfort in being the injured one?

What would it mean to release the story that keeps my pain alive?

Is there someone or something I'm waiting on before I allow myself to heal?

What would happen if I let his medicine touch the places I've declared unforgivable?

The war may rage around the burn sign,

But healing happens in the valley,

The place where we stop defending our suffering and start trusting the hand that heals.

When you find yourself clinging to an old hurt,

Remember,

You don't have to wait for another's apology to be free.

You only need to say yes to the medicine already offered.

Let this be your quiet yes to peace,

To healing,

And to becoming the you he trusts to act on his behalf.