Testimonies

MARILYN'S TESTIMONY OF HER DELIVERANCE, UNABRIDGED

by bruno sebrechts 
05/25/26
Free to Share
Author requests article critique

  Message Writer
  Hire Writer

Tweet

MARILYN'S TESTIMONY OF HER DELIVERANCE (UNABRIDGED)

Near the beginning of my ministry, our pastor invited me as an elder to assist him pastorally with a woman we will call “Marilyn.” She had recently come to Christ in a dramatic way, after having been badly traumatized for most of her life, including thirteen years of chronic illness, which included frequent forced admissions for extended periods to psychiatric hospitals. Listen to her thrilling story:

Childhood

My earliest childhood memories are filled with fear, for there was nowhere that I felt safe. I have often wondered how no one in my immediate surroundings ever noticed what was going on or how hard it was for me. I still shudder when I think back to when I was six, and became the victim of a very traumatic occult ritual. It left me with some physical scars, but many more emotional scars. Afterwards, when I was threatened with death if I ever told anyone about it, my fears increased; and so did my desire for someone around me to talk about it. I longed to scream it out.

My father was an alcoholic, which imprisoned everyone in our family in his world. Each of us had our own struggles, as well as having to deal with him. Whenever Dad came home the whole family was scared, for whenever he was drunk he would go wild, with a look in his eyes that haunted me all the time. Even at school I would suddenly become sick with fear at any memory of that look in his eyes, so sick that sometimes I was sent home—to be with my father!

Sometimes, I would hide in the closet, but even there I was not safe, because he knew where I was, and he would force me, through the door, to open the closet. When he was not drunk, he was completely different and could be friendly, but still, that could change without any warning. Because I never knew what to expect, I was constantly tense and anxious. So, often I sat on the stairs in the room above, desperately praying when all went wrong in the living room. I prayed to Mary for my father to die, or for me to die, so we would be set free from our hopelessness. Or I prayed that my dad would never come home, because my fear was so great and my loneliness so deep.

I guess the kids at school noticed my uneasiness and my tendency to isolate myself. But they knew that my father was an alcoholic, which was reason enough to avoid me. So, I built my own world, in which the only person I had contact with was a friendly, understanding imaginary woman. I often just heard her voice, but I had seen her several times in real life as well. Because I had met her in unusual circumstances, I never wondered who she was, why I was connected to her, or why I was the only one who saw and heard her. It just seemed that she understood me. I could tell her anything, for she seemed to know me better than anyone else. She even knew of things I’d never told anyone. Her presence around me assured me that I needed no one else besides her, not even friends of my own age.  Sometimes, in class the teacher noticed that I wrote down things that this woman said to me, which resulted in my being beaten, because I was “dreaming” instead of working. 

Youth

When I was eleven, I was again the victim of an occult ritual, which was so painful and horrible that it’s still hard to describe, and perhaps nobody who reads about it would believe it to be possible. This ritual left me with many wounds, with physical and emotional scars that I had to carry for many years. So, when the female voice told me to put an end to my life, I agreed with her. Anything would be better than continuing to live in this horrible world.

I know now that it was God’s protection that I survived, regardless of several suicide attempts, and I thank him for this.

I cannot explain all that happened in our family, but tragedy compounded my injuries and my sense of bondage when, on his eighteenth birthday, my older brother and his friend died in a car accident. Our grief was traumatic. I struggled to overcome the shock, even though my future husband, whom I was then dating, gave me some comfort. It was then that my epileptic seizures began.

My father could not handle the death of his son, and, to make matters even worse, he discovered he had developed throat cancer. Knowing that he did not have long to live, my father kept threatening to kill us too before he died. With my oldest sister now married and my younger brother at boarding school, there were three of us at home: father, mother and me. Our daily existence was marked by constant strife, tyranny, fear and anxiety. I lived somewhere between fear and desperate hope. I communicated with that inner voice, begging Mary, the mother of Jesus, to put an end to this nightmare, and I kept praying for my father’s death.

Our neighbors began hearing my father’s death threats against us, but when a nurse, who became aware of them, contacted the police, they told her that they could do nothing unless a crime was committed! While other family members came to help in critical times, we were usually alone and quite helpless against my father. 

Then one evening my father came home drunk again, but this time he actually tried to murder my mother and me! The neighbors called the police, who arrived just in time to rescue us. I was taken to the hospital and my father was sent to jail, before being transferred to a psychiatric hospital. My mother was in shock, but we returned to our home. I will never be able to express what it means to endure the worst possible kind of attack—that of a child almost killed by her own father. How long my father’s eyes have haunted me, that look in his eyes when he struck! Eventually, my father died by an act of his own desperation. 

Later on, I often asked myself why there had been no salvation for him. Unfortunately, there had been no turning point in his life through which God could enter his heart.

Hospitalization

When I was eighteen years old, I married; I thought that was the solution. I was away from home, and my life could start again with someone I loved, and who obviously loved me as well. He did not drink and there were no financial problems, so life could be beautiful.  But there was so much that was unhealed, and I was unable to talk about all that I had gone through.

When I was nineteen years old, our daughter was born. We were delighted with her, but shortly afterwards I became ill with such constant vomiting and dehydration that I was hospitalized. For one month I was on a drip, but all the tests that were taken showed no physical causes, so eventually I was sent to a psychiatrist. I can still remember our first conversation. He asked me if my husband drank or was seeing other women. I reacted sharply to these questions, for I knew my husband loved me and cared so much for me, and he and our daughter were everything to me. But when the psychiatrist inquired further back into my youth, the ball started rolling!

I told the psychiatrist about my father’s drinking problem, and, for the first time, I told of the fear I had endured because of him. I did not mention the traumas or the inner voices, and when I told him about my brother’s tragic car accident and my father’s reaction to it, it seemed like the psychiatrist was satisfied with the information about my father. So, I stopped sharing. 

He prescribed sedatives and antidepressants, assuring me that I would be better in no time!

But at home, the strong medication turned me into a robot. I had no vitality and I couldn’t muster the energy for even little things. I preferred to stay in my bed, but this was of no help. I talked to no one about what really went on inside me, not even to my own husband. He wanted to listen, but I had not learned to express myself, and he was not used to talking about inner feelings. So, I kept listening to my inner voices, which seemed to be more numerous than before. I could tell them everything and, I thought, at least they understood me.

Sometime later, I was hospitalized again and underwent many more examinations. The results showed that there was nothing physically wrong, so the conclusion was that I was mentally ill. The doctors with whom I spoke seemed to listen only until they had heard what they had wanted to hear—as if that was enough for them. They agreed that my hatred toward my father was quite normal behavior, and they prescribed more sleeping pills and antidepressants, supplemented with stimulant medication. Everything would turn out fine. I did not have to worry.

Everything did not turn out fine, because with all my medications I became paralyzed. With no control over my muscles I could barely move or even speak, and my saliva kept dribbling out of my mouth. But worst of all was the lack of understanding from certain doctors and the nursing staff. I could no longer hold my fork to eat, and the nurse became angry with me, and she threatened me with a transfer to the psychiatric ward. I heard a noise on my lips like a moaning animal, but I could do nothing to stop this sound, which came from deep within me. It was horrifying! In Dutch we say that “it went through my inner bones.”

They gave me more injections until I stopped moaning, but the paralysis increased. My family could not stand it anymore and they transferred me to another hospital, where my diagnosis was“paralysis due to overdose of medication!” They told me I should be happy that they caught it when they did, because it could have been fatal; but I felt far from happy! Every few hours I received intravenous injections, and had to stay several days in the intensive care unit. Then, as if I were a small child, I had to learn to eat again, learn to write, all the basics . . . 

After some time I was discharged, but a short time later I had to be hospitalized again, this time in the psychiatric ward of an academic hospital. This ward had only recently been opened and, as one of the first patients, I rather strangely got a “festive” welcome. They gave me champagne and I was treated kindly, but I did not know what to expect or what was expected of me. I thought it strange to see patients walking around in regular clothes instead of pajamas. But then I noticed that I was the only one in a nightgown, and I had nothing else with me. Worst of all was that all the doors were locked, as if I were in a prison. Why did I deserve this? What had I done wrong? 

My therapy included interviews with the doctor, which mainly repeated my earlier conversations with doctors, and my inner voices continued. At first I thought these voices might offer me support and understanding, but I began to find that if I did not obey them, they would dominate me, becoming more intrusive each day. The voices warned me not to talk about them and assured me again that it would be better to end my life. Oftentimes, I heard that I had been doing things that I could not remember afterwards. 

My husband was told that I suffered from severe schizophrenia, that I would only get worse, and that I would receive better care in an institution for chronic patients. What more could I expect from life—and what good was I to society? Fortunately, he never agreed. He wanted me to be at home as much as possible, even though he knew I often needed to be hospitalized whenever I relapsed. My epileptic seizures were also very hard for him to handle, and many, many times I was sent to a psychiatric hospital, where I felt that my opinion and my self-worth had no value. 

As long as I agreed with the hospital staff, everything went fairly well, but if I expressed my opinion or did not cooperate, I risked being put into solitary confinement. This was a room with bare walls and bare floor, with only a bed that was screwed into the floor, and a night bucket to take care of your toilet needs. Everything else was removed except a blanket to cover me and keep me warm. Even my bed sheets and clothes were kept outside the room, so I was naked in a cage with a glass window. Everyone could see me, as if I were a wild, dangerous and untamable animal. This all happened many years ago, but this is how patients were treated there at that time. 

I remember once being locked up because I refused to take medication. I knew I could not be in control while taking it, and without it I had some chance of resisting my inner voices. If I was under its sedation, I could not think, and I had no control over myself. Fearing this, I tried to flee, but I was soon caught and put in solitary confinement, where I was fully sedated. 

Soon I was so groggy from the medication that I could not stand on my feet. I had a bowel movement on the bucket, but then I fell and was lying in my own dirt. I called for help and cried and screamed like an animal in distress. After a long time, after I had lain shivering in the damp and cold, a nurse finally entered the room. He was very angry and pulled me back onto the bed, without allowing me to wash myself: “I had caused it myself, and I had to bear the consequences!” Each day, a doctor or psychologist came by to ask if I was finally ready to take my medication, and if I’d promise not to run away. 

After a week, I swore that they would never see me cry. My grief wasn’t noticed anyhow and I didn’t want them to see my pain when they had no real interest in me. In fact, they completely ignored it. Eventually, I sat in a corner of the room, completely broken. I remember banging my head on the wall, as if I were trying to break my skull. When the doctor, the psychologist, and the nurse came in and asked me again if I wanted at last do what was expected of me, I agreed, and I was allowed to go back to my room. This week of “healing therapy” had worked . . . 

I tried to commit suicide, with the inner voices encouraging me—even trying to force me—about twenty times. After one attempt, I was comatose for ten days. My hospital stays were becoming more frequent and for longer periods, but the “therapy” made me feel lonelier and more broken than I had ever been. I wasn’t taken seriously by anyone because I was considered insane, and this agony lasted for about thirteen years. I don’t wish to discredit psychiatric care, because I realize that it can be a road to recovery, but for me, in those days, it was really a very traumatic experience.

Looking back, I now consider surviving this period in my life as miracle of protection from God.

Looking for Spiritual Escape

I was not in the psychiatric hospital very long, before a doctor advised me to start practicing yoga during my times away from the hospital. He told me it would be a very good relaxation therapy for me, but I had to wait another three years before I learned that a yoga course was coming to my hometown. It was presented as a relaxation technique, which was exactly what I wanted. We started with a dozen people, and ten of us were novices. Normally, the course lasted for one year, but that initial year could be followed by an advanced course—and that’s what I did. From the beginning, we were advised to practice the yoga at home on daily basis, spending from half an hour to an hour. 

Eventually, I moved from yoga to transcendental meditation and mindlessness. First, we learned to relax in the lotus position. We had to think of beautiful things, like flowers, wavy water, etc. After about half a year, we learned to relax without even thinking about anything; we had to empty ourselves, no longer thinking. “Like you were entering the darkness,” said the teacher, “or as if you were falling asleep.” And we had to hold this darkness we experienced not only with our eyes closed, but also when our eyes were opened. 

Few were able to hold the darkness in this way, and I was one of only two in our group who could. Our teacher invited the two of us to proceed to a more advanced level, as he said we had a special gift. This gift would enable us to go much deeper, even to leave our bodies, which would be very helpful in handling our problems. This really appealed to me, for I wanted nothing else than a way to handle my problems and to find real rest. The thought of leaving my body sounded like a wonderful way to cope with my problems, for I could escape when those inner voices would try to dominate me. “At last,” I thought, “I’ve found the way out!”

Unfortunately, as I later realized, this just brought me even deeper into trouble. It took a lot of effort to reach the point of being able to “transcend” my body and its problems, but it is not healthy to leave our bodies, for God has designed us to be integrated with our bodies! It took a lot of training and discipline and certain secret practices. We had been given a personal mantra (like a ritual prayer), and later we received a keyword to enter the spirit world. When I brought forth a certain sound, I had to wait for an answer that would provide me with “contact” when a certain power came over me, so I entered a trance. 

But eventually, I found that the spirit world could manipulate me, and the spirits took the initiative, so I was no longer in control of myself. It was as if I were being sucked out of myself without being able to resist. Then, when I was in the shadows of the spirit world, it was as if I were meeting my father, the one with whom all the trouble really started! So, though I no longer wanted to go there, I wasn’t able to determine what to do or where to go. And what started with a half hour each day, sometimes grew into half a day!

It was only after my conversion to Christ that I first heard that Jesus Christ offers inner peace along a totally different path. After receiving Christ as my Savior, I immediately stopped those practices, though later I began to feel their continuing influence. Although I knew that certain powers were active in me, it no longer seemed like the privilege that my yoga teachers had described. All I knew was that I was not completely free, even after I had been a Christian for a year. I was not happy with this, for I wanted now to have nothing to do with that world of supernatural phenomena. I just wanted to get rid of it. 

Now, through healing and deliverance, God has completely freed me from the spirit world. It took several fierce battles, and God taught me to express and confess and share my needs with others and to pray for forgiveness, healing and deliverance, which he has answered. Over the years, his rest has only increased, with a deep peace, not from this world, but from God through Jesus Christ, as it says in John 14:17. 

The turning point

My turning point came when I was thirty years old, and I met some Bible-believing Christians. Between two hospitalizations, I found work as a house cleaner with a family that I suspected were Jehovah’s Witnesses, because they had a Bible. In this Catholic country hardly anybody is an active Bible reader. But I was wrong! They weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses, even though they talked a lot about Jesus Christ and their relationship with him. They spoke about the church they attended, like it was one big family, and everything they said about their faith struck me. I felt that they had something that I did not have, although I was absolutely convinced of the existence of God and I already regarded myself as a Christian. 

Through them I came to know people that really wanted to live as followers of Christ, and they showed me true compassion, love and friendship. But I did not dare tell them that I was sick, still mentally ill. I was afraid that they would drop me if they found out, like so many of our former friends from before our marriage! Most people avoided me, as if I were suffering from a contagious disease. This secrecy could not last, however, since I needed to be hospitalized again. I begged my husband not to tell my new friends about my stay in a psychiatric hospital, but he felt that this would be wrong, and he wanted them to be notified anyway. I only wanted them to know that I needed some rest—I was so ashamed of my illness. I never expected them to come to the hospital to visit me, but they did, and their visit struck me so deeply. They were not ashamed of me, and they kept me as their friend!

When I told them a little of my past, they gave me a booklet about trusting God. I devoured that book, although I was under strong medicine. They promised me that they would visit me again, but I had a very tough week; I really couldn’t stand it any longer. After thirteen years of being in a psychiatric environment, I was completely exhausted. I did not want to live anymore. I suffered so much with my illness. My husband and child were also the victims of my illness and they were also at the end of their strength. I really could not go any further! 

The other patient in my room had also known much misery, and we talked a lot together about our personal traumas. We bound each other to secrecy. We became so bonded that we agreed to commit suicide together. We shared our fears and our deepest misery and our fear of dying. We were afraid of dying, but our other fears were even greater. We planned to commit suicide by throwing ourselves under a train the following Saturday, when we got permission to go into town for a few hours. But that Saturday morning, I gave God one last chance. I called on him: “If you really exist, show me!” 

Some moments later my friends came to visit me, and they had a Bible with them. When they gave it to me, something happened inside of me, for I suddenly knew that I would one day be healed and that the solution to my problems was hidden in that book! When they left our room, I immediately started reading it. It struck me that I really felt that someone lovingly spoke to me from the pages. Every page seemed to provide the immediate answer to each question I posed, and this went on for half an hour! Everything that I read was answering my questions. Sitting on my knees, I started crying, and I said to God: “God, I want to live with you, because I have called to you in my deepest misery: Show me if you exist.”

He responded, and from that day on I accepted the Bible as the word of God, never to doubt it anymore. 

What happened after that, however, hit me very hard, for I learned that my female friend had committed suicide on her own, while I had totally forgotten our appointment! I really had to fight feelings of guilt, for I felt that I had abandoned her. I had been so thrilled by the visit of my friends and the Bible they gave to me! My friend was dead, but I had been saved—and just before it was too late. 

Normally, I would have been hospitalized for a few months, but a week after I had received that Bible, I went home, because I was doing so much better.  I did not know that at the prayer meetings in the church they had been praying for me. I went to the Friday night Bible studies and it was hard for me to concentrate, because I knew nothing about the Bible. Yet I found it interesting and wanted to learn and accept it because it was the word of God, which meant it was the truth.

 What appealed to me most was the mutual love and friendship I experienced. After the Bible study we drank a cup of coffee and I spoke briefly with the pastor. It felt strange that nobody had regarded me as weird, even though many of them were aware of my psychiatric background. I was kindly accepted, just like the others. The following Sunday, I attended their worship service. I was not feeling well and had the boldness to ask for prayer, for I was told that this possibility existed. Praying together helped me so much, as the whole service had; I felt a deep faith and the presence of God. 

I also received a booklet about the healing of damaged emotions. When I read it, it struck me that many in psychiatric care were broken by their hatred. I recognized this immediately within myself, for I hated my father so intensely that I almost could not bear it. It was like a heavy stone on my chest. After I called the pastor and made an appointment with him, he told me that this hate was actually a sin. This was very different to what psychiatrists had told me, for they always said that hatred for my father was quite normal after everything he had done to me. However, I felt absolutely unable to forgive my father. How could I obey God’s word? 

I was told that God asks no more than anyone can handle, and that if I wanted to, but could not forgive, it would be sufficient simply to confess my willingness at that time. God would meet me, because the Bible says: “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.” So I asked God to help me to get rid of this hatred, and to my surprise that was exactly what happened. It was like a hundred-pound load was suddenly lifted off me. When I went home, I felt like I was a different person. 

Somewhat later, I made another appointment to pray about my epileptic seizures, which were occurring up to seven times a day. They prayed for me and anointed me with oil, and I was completely healed from that moment on. And since then, I have never had another attack. Even the doctor concluded from the EEG that I had been remarkably healed. 

I had grown used to having a lot of therapy, but how different was the counseling I got through the church! I noticed that I could really trust my counselors and that they took time to listen to me—and without charging a fee! After we talked something through, we prayed to God to ask for healing, and so God brought healing to my emotions time and again. When I told the psychologist that I wanted to stop his treatment because I believed that God had a better therapy for me, he phoned my husband to tell him that I needed to be re-hospitalized because of religious delusions. 

My husband’s response was different from what he had expected: “She has tried so many things, let her try this as well.”The psychologist could not keep me from leaving. What a joy for me! Deep inside I knew that God would heal me completely and that I had to rely completely on him and no longer on the many medications I still used.  I wanted to stop using them, but I used strong sleeping pills, anti-depressants and stimulants—you  could find medicine I could not do without everywhere in my house. 

The weaning process was tough. I began to sweat and tremble and I went often on my knees in prayer, to ask God to strengthen me. I had to keep on praying, begging for God’s mercy. The nights were most difficult. In a period of two weeks I hardly slept at all and I was completely exhausted. I know very well that tapering off medications should be done under close medical supervision, and so this situation is certainly not a good example to follow—but I was so eager to get rid of them, After two weeks I could finally sleep again. I was freed from my addiction.

Former religious devotion

At a certain point, I was asked whether there were objects in my house where the powers of darkness could have their grip. In Deuteronomy 7 is written: “You shall not bring an abomination into your house, or you will be cursed along with it” (Deut. 7:26). I had a few religious objects that had their own story, but I was not convinced this was wrong. We prayed that God himself would bring clarity. When I got home a few hours later, I could not believe my eyes. A stone image of Christ(!) which had hung on the chimney had come down, as had several Mary statues and paintings, which I had made in an effort to get rid of all my fears. Even a drawer was pulled open, and a crucifix, which I had received from my grandfather, and which I kept at the bottom of the in the drawer, now lay on top!

I was trembling, and I immediately called the pastor, though for the first few minutes of the call I could not say a word. When I finally was able to articulate what had happened, he was also surprised, but said he could only explain it as a very specific answer to prayer. It was now clear what I had to put out of my house!

Maybe it’s good to explain some background for these images. I was raised in a type of Catholicism that was mainly characterized by superstitious popular devotion. As a child I had the deep conviction that God existed. I “prayed” often, but to Mary, as I had been taught. The more I prayed to her, the more my conviction grew. When later I became so ill, I hoped God would help me out, but I did not dare to approach him, as I felt myself too sinful. Perhaps God would have mercy on me if I used Mary “as mediator” or another saint to pray to him. I was unaware that this goes against Scripture (see Ex. 20:3; Deut. 6:13). 

When I was hospitalized, I attended Holy Mass almost daily and prayed to “Maria,” asking her if she wanted to help me. I also often went on a pilgrimage dedicated to Saint Anthony. When I walked in the garden of the pilgrimage site, I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the gravel to do my penance. At every statue I stopped and I prayed.  I also lit candles many times; I did penance hour after hour and worshiped images—what a difference from the biblical call to put our trust in Jesus’ saving death and resurrection.

During my stay in the psychiatric hospital, I had several times called upon the local priest, asking whether he wanted to pray for my healing; but his reaction deprived me of all hope. He just gave me a pat and said, “Oh, little child, you will just have to learn to live with it.” He did not give me even a glimpse of hope that God could or would help me. I felt rather humiliated.  I also often prayed at the grave of “blessed brother” Isidore, another Catholic saint. And when I was at home and felt very sick, I shut myself in, locked the doors and closed the curtains. Then I put all my statues of Mary and of all other saints together, lit candles and sat for hours and hours praying, crying and begging for help. 

I rarely prayed to God, and when I did, I was not aware of God as a loving Father. I didn’t realize then that the way I prayed was against God’s commandments.[1] Yet, God was so loving that he finally answered me. He knew that I (albeit in a wrong way) earnestly sought him, and he really let himself be found. Now I have a living relationship with my heavenly Father. I was not able to earn merits by doing a lot of penance, but God in his love and mercy accepted me, just as I was.

The first year of my new life

The first year after my conversion, I read as much as possible in the Bible, attended Bible studies, prayer meetings and Sunday worship services. Looking back at that year, I must now say that the first year was relatively calm and easy, compared to the years that followed. I believe God gave me the time and opportunity to get better acquainted with his word, so I would be armed for the things to come. Sometimes, marvelously, God by his Spirit spoke to me very clearly. Or suddenly I got either a Bible verse or a text reference in my mind, which provided the exact answer to a question. For example, when I looked to God and asked the question why so many counseling and prayer sessions were needed (I was beginning to feel quite guilty, because I was expecting so much of my counselors), I got the answer from Mark 2:17, which reads: “It is not the healthy people who need a doctor, but those who are sick.” Several times when the battle grew fiercer, I heard an audible voice saying to me: “You are in my hands, my child, keep on fighting.” But in the end it was always God’s word, not my experiences, that kept me grounded and provided the final beacon of hope.

God worked every step in a slightly different manner. Several times we prayed for physical healing, and God intervened, but it also happened that I had to go with physical symptoms to a doctor, and even needed surgery.  This was very difficult for me, because I had had very unpleasant experiences with doctors and hospitals. But God gave me the assurance that he was with me in the hospital and that he also would use doctors to make me better. Realizing that there are good and reliable doctors was part of my healing.

Above the doctors stood God, in whose hands I placed my life. God has miraculously healed me of various diseases several times. When I watch a documentary on television about anorexia nervosa and see how many people die from it, I am so thankful for God’s healing of me. 

That’s not to say that my recovery was quick and easy, as if my healing had been a succession of easy steps of faith or an simple flow of miracles. Maybe God was just so close to me and had been so gracious because the road to complete recovery and deliverance was so painful and difficult. I was in need of much encouragement, and God gave me what was necessary. The road to recovery was long and intensive. I knew that I had no other choice but to persevere or be hospitalized again. So I was willing to fight. Although it was God who healed me, he asked for my entire cooperation and commitment, always respecting my free will. When I nearly lost the courage to go on, it was always his love that touched me and urged to continue to fight and trust him.

Sometimes, in the middle of this process, God used me to witness to people in need about what he had done in my life, which made me remember all he had done for me. At other times, I was encouraged by a sermon or a Bible study, or the heartfelt sympathy of other believers. The Bible says: “Bear one another’s burdens;” I’ve found that the experience of this verse is a tremendous aid.

Afterwards, I saw that God was not only working in my life, but also in the lives of others, whom he had prepared, so that together we could go all the way to complete healing. When one of us was under severe attack, the other could encourage him. We needed each other, and we believed that God wanted us to be interdependent and mutually supportive. It is very important, especially in difficult situations, to be aligned with your counselors and to trust each other and to know they believe what you are saying. It was God’s love that brought and kept us together during the whole process of deliverance. And this was so necessary because the counseling process was time-consuming and intensive.

There was so much to be expressed and to be prayed for, and God knew I couldn’t handle it all at once. Little by little, as we prayed and talked together, God brought things up, which we then had to pray through and process. Those were painful moments, being confronted again with very painful events, which I had suppressed for all those years. I had to learn to leave all hardness behind me, even concerning things that were hidden and suppressed. It was so tempting to keep on suppressing the past and to hide behind a mask. However, God wanted me to come to myself and face my inner pain. Those hurts had to be processed through my emotions, which God had created partly for such a purpose. Many things were so traumatic that only the power of prayer and divine intervention could free me from the grip of fear and the dark world beyond. The act of expressing trauma, receiving prayer for inner healing, biblical anointing with oil, and deliverances all went hand in hand. In order to receive healing, it was still necessary for me to give and receive forgiveness. Often this remained impossible, but, just as it had been with my father, from the moment that I expressed my willingness to forgive, meekness broke through and enabled me to pray: “Father forgive them, for they knew not what they did.” This way God healed my emotions. 

A fierce battle

 Now that this is behind me, I sometimes think: “Maybe it was better that I did not previously know how hard it would be.”

One of those texts that we (my counselors and I) really appealed to with regard to the length of the process was Deuteronomy 7:22, where God, in view of the conquest of Canaan by the Israelites, said that he would drive them out slowly, lest the wild animals would become too numerous. God has gradually freed me from demonic bindings, physical ailments and emotional injuries, so that I am thoroughly restored. He did it at a pace which helped me to emotionally cope with all the changes.

Praying for deliverance was not the first thing that was to happen. I even wonder whether I could have coped with demonic outbursts at the beginning of my new life, for I had seen enough of the kingdom of darkness! But at a certain point, demonic outbursts were inevitable, because of the various occult rituals which I, albeit involuntarily, had been involved in, and to which I was still in some way connected. Evil spirits had some hold on my life— they could not dominate me, but they were still there, like a strong dark shadow over me. But the Spirit of God would gradually drive that dark shadow away and replace it with his enfolding love.  The song "O Let the Son of God Enfold You" became my favorite song.

Perhaps, this is the appropriate place for a strong warning: I myself was a victim, being struck by severe rituals. But even milder forms, such as tarot, pendulums, glass slides, etc. may eventually lead to demonic bondage. Do not be fooled into thinking that an innocent experiment can do no harm. If you give the kingdom of darkness one finger, your whole hand will be gripped! As I got closer to God and walked closer in his light, I became aware of more darkness. 

On a particular day while driving to a Bible study, I felt a strange presence in my car, and a compelling voice instructed me to drive into the water. I panicked and called to Jesus for help, and at that moment I sensed that the uninvited guest left the car. 

But it didn’t always work that quickly. Sometime later, when I had made an appointment with my counselors to pray for me, I was trembling with anxiety. I could not talk any longer, I couldn’t even pray, and I could not explain my fear. I was told later what happened next, for when they commanded a spirit of fear to go out, I shrank down and gave a shrill scream. While crying, I was freed, held in the arms of a female friend, who was there with me.

The past retreated more and more behind me, but sometimes I had to realize that there were still deep spiritual problems connected to it. Certain inner voices were gone and others crowded into the background, but these were still there. But I now knew that these voices were neither a sign of insanity, nor had they anything to do with my new life. Now I could identify them as dark forces, which had no hold over me as a new creation. That does not apply to everyone who suffers from inner voices, but in my case they were spiritual intruders, and I could resist them in Jesus’ name. My counselors didn’t hear these voices, but my experience did fit within their frame of biblical thinking. They recognized it as a reality, which was immensely important to me.

The battle for my release—becoming free from the claims that the devil had made on me through occult rituals and inflicted traumas, as well as my emotional healing—was a process that took several years. This seems strange to many people, but as long as you know that you are walking with God and that you are progressing step by step, it is worthwhile. We prayed and talked at least a few hours per week. Sometimes, it seemed to me that we were making little progress, but always, at the end of a session, I experienced restoration in some area—physical, emotional or spiritual. God has even given me a son, after medical analysis said that my chances of becoming pregnant were nearly impossible!

Now I am so thankful that we stayed on track for the whole process. Certainly, in such a spiritual battle, it is vital to persevere until victory is final, for stopping prematurely may mean that all has been in vain. Sometimes, God revealed something during our time of prayer which I was suppressing or simply had forgetten. We realize there is also a possibility of deception through false memories, which counselors need to be aware of, but the fact remains that there are often suppressed memories in the case of extreme traumas, which was the case with me. 

Earlier, when I had gone through extreme sufferings, I had survived by suppressing the memory, and I had locked certain emotions away behind a strong wall. This meant that in those areas I could no longer function in a healthy manner. My experience of deliverance actually gave me the choice of being willing to break down those walls and allow God to heal me. To leave those protections behind me was painful and not easy. That’s why it was God’s wisdom to lay a spiritual foundation in my life in the first year after my conversion. Then I could trust God that his protection would not fail, and that he would heal and restore me. 

Confrontation with evil people from the past

 As my spiritual conflicts came to a close, it became increasingly clear how deeply I had been traumatized. Even when I thought I was almost free, I still faced several months of heavy fighting, in which I was even physically threatened by people from the occult past. Several times they entered our house under false pretenses when I was alone. When the fight became very fierce, and had I reached my physical and mental limits, my counselors took me to their home for a few days. It was no longer safe to be alone, yet I was never completely unprotected. God showed me during that period how important it was to handle his word like a weapon. 

The battle was a spiritual battle, so the weapons had to be spiritual weapons. I experienced several times that quoting Bible verses –prompted by the Holy Spirit- not only made evil spirits flee, but had the same effect on hostile people.  One of the Scripture passages that gave me strong encouragement at that time was 2 Chronicles 32:7-8. It seemed God spoke these verses to me as a protection in the bizarre battle against evil opponents: “Be strong and courageous. Let the king of Assyria and the great army which he has not bring you in fear, because we are stronger than them: he relies on human power, but we are assisted by the Lord our God, who fights for us.” 

God has admonished us on several occasions that he is our helper and that our protection is in him. We are not to fight with human weapons, but with prayer; not to hate, but to forgive; not to curse back, but to bless.  This is not always easy, but God has showed us that in essence only the blood of Christ, the atoning sacrifice that he has provided, distinguishes us from our malicious opponents! Outside his grace we would be no better than those creatures that have fallen the farthest. 

God loves us, and does not want anyone to be lost. The sacrifice of Jesus was big enough to forgive Peter after he denied Jesus, as well as to cleanse the thief on the cross. It is sufficient for my sins and for all those who had treated me badly. They were blinded by the prince of this world, but God’s arm is not too short to deliver them as well.

I have left much unsaid about the battle I went through, but the related book on the biblical grounding of spiritual deliverance provides clarity in the biblical principle that were at work. God has shown me through it that he has power over all the evil powers of the dark kingdom, and that he has called me to witness to his power to set people free. My life had been destroyed by both humans and demons, but God has restored me. What he has done in my life, he can do in the life of everyone in spiritual need. I know it’s not my job to cast out demons myself; others are called for this. But I can certainly testify of his enormous liberating and delivering power.

I want to testify that Jesus Christ is the Light of the world, and I want to point to God who not only has all power in heaven, but also in every corner of the earth! He is Lord!

This Testimony is available in Spanish, Portuguese, French, Dutch, Chinese, Russian, Arabic and Farsi. (Volunteers to translate into other languages welcome).
Contact:  www.LightInOurDarkness.net

General treatment of this theme: "Light In Our Darkness, Essentials of Spiritual Deliverance" – Bruno Sebrechts, Humble Joy Publishing, ISBN: 9789083136400