The Girl, the Doll and the Deliverer.

When I was a little girl, my most prized possession was a porcelain doll. She was beautiful, with hand-painted features and a stiff, lace-trimmed blue dress that felt like royalty. I named her Mary. But even as a child, I didn't stop there. I called her Mary Magdalene.

I knew the Sunday School version of her story: the woman who followed Jesus, the one who was there at the tomb. I knew, in a vague childhood way, that Jesus had cast "demons" out of her. I loved that she was loyal; I loved that she was set free.

What I didn't know then—what I couldn’t have possibly grasped as I tucked her into her miniature bed—was that my choice of a name was a profound piece of foreshadowing. I was naming my future struggle, and more importantly, I was naming my future rescue.

As I moved from childhood into my teens and eventually my twenties, the porcelain innocence of my youth shattered. The girl who loved the lady in the blue dress became a woman lost in a gray world.

For years, my life was defined by the "hollow" things:

The Party Scene: I sought belonging in rooms filled with smoke and loud music, trying to drown out the silence in my own soul.

The Bottle: Drinking became more than a social habit; it became a shield I used to hide from myself.

The Pursuit of Affection: I looked for love in encounters that left me feeling more empty and "haunted" than before I walked into the room.

I had my own legion of demons. They weren't always the kind you see in movies—they were the demons of shame, addiction, and a bone-deep unworthiness. I felt like I was walking through a fog, constantly chased by the ghosts of my choices. I was "haunted" by the feeling that I had gone too far for even God to find me.

The Bible tells us that Jesus cast seven demons out of Mary Magdalene. In biblical terms, the number seven often represents completion. Mary wasn't just a little bit troubled; she was completely overwhelmed by her darkness until she met Christ.

For a long time, I felt completely overwhelmed, too. But the beauty of the Gospel is that the depth of our darkness only serves to highlight the brightness of His light.

When I finally hit the end of myself, Jesus was there. He didn't approach me with a list of demands or a lecture on my "partying" years. He approached me the way He approached Mary in the garden: He called me by my name. He reminded me that the "haunting" didn't have to be my permanent state. Through His sacrifice, He broke the legal right those demons had to my life.

Today, I live a life that is radically different, yet I want to be honest: freedom doesn't mean perfection.

I still struggle with sin. I still have bad days, selfish thoughts, and moments where I have to intentionally turn my eyes back to the Cross. That is the human condition. But there is a world of difference between struggling with sin and being haunted by it.

* To be haunted is to be a prisoner to your past, constantly looking over your shoulder.

* To be free is to know that even when you stumble, you are walking on solid ground.

I feel an incredible closeness to Mary Magdalene now. When I think of her, I don't see a "fallen woman." I see a woman who was given a second chance and spent the rest of her life in radical gratitude.

Looking Back at the Blue Dress

I sometimes think about that little girl and her porcelain doll. I wish I could go back and tell her, "You’re going to get lost for a while, but don't worry. The Man who saved the woman your doll is named after? He’s already planned your rescue, too."

If you are reading this and you feel "haunted"—by addiction, by your past, or by a darkness you can’t quite name—please know that the same Jesus who stood before Mary Magdalene stands before you. He isn't looking for a porcelain-perfect version of you. He wants the real you, demons and all, so He can trade your heavy chains for His light yoke.

I am finally free. And because of Him, you can be too.