Celebrating Our “Manasseh” | Five Years of Magdala

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God.” —Teilhard de Chardin 

I recently finished a re-read of the book of Genesis during my morning prayer. If you haven’t read it, the book takes you on quite the ride: from the creation of the world, through generations of tension between faithfulness and human weakness, to its end with the life of Joseph. 

Joseph is not a biblical character who has stood out to me much, but this time he did. 

Joseph’s life was full of hardship and trauma: abandoned by his brothers, sold into slavery, wrongly accused and thrown into prison. Through it all he remains faithful to a God that is foreign to those around him, and is raised to the position of being Pharaoh’s second-in-command. 

In the midst of this transformation, a verse stood out to me I had never noticed before: 

“Joseph named his firstborn Manasseh, meaning, ‘God has made me forget entirely my troubles and my father’s house’” —Genesis 41:51

This name struck me deeply; it testifies to God’s goodness, not only to heal Joseph from his pain, but to help him forget. 

The newness that came directly from his pain—being taken to Egypt, imprisoned—is so transformative, he forgets the anguish. 

It’s a part of his story, but it’s no longer the foundation.

Five years ago—when I purchased a simple website domain and said “yes” to starting a mission I had only an idea of—I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if Magdala would fall flat, if it would end up being unnecessary, or if it would lead us in the wrong direction. 

I didn’t even know the specifics of our programming, or who would be joining me—I just knew I was supposed to say “yes.” 

Beyond the organization—and though, at the time, I would have said otherwise—I had a lot of uncertainty around my own story. I thought I knew why my experiences of sexual brokenness had happened the way they did, and I thought I knew what women needed. 

If there has been one lesson in the past five years, it’s this: I do not know all the answers, nor do I need to. 

He has held the answers, time and time again. 

A mission that was brand new five years ago has flourished into a full-time apostolate, supported by an incredible staff I’m blessed to serve with, and amazing volunteers who inspire us daily with their dedication to our community—an organization that’s able to receive hundreds of women a year bravely and humbly seeking God’s heart for them. 

And within my own story, He’s had the answers too. 

Five years into this work, Jesus has upended parts of the knowledge I thought I had, and often put curiosity in its place: a desire, not to answer all our women’s uncertainties in sexual brokenness, but to curiously pursue what might happen if we let Him in… 

what might happen if I let Him in. 

There was a time when sexual brokenness was right in front of me: raging, shaming, condemning, and telling me I was abandoned—inescapably imprisoned. But through the last five years, in a new way, sexual brokenness has slowly transformed into something far from that heavy presence. 

It’s become something I find joy in acknowledging, because I know now—as a fruit of the work of Magdala—it’s not a threat. It’s an invitation to wholeness. 

By God’s grace, these past five years have made me forget what it felt like to live under that place of condemnation. I haven’t forgotten my story—all its intricacies, or even the places I still don’t have answers for—but I’ve forgotten what it felt like for sexual brokenness to be the end. 

Instead, because of this work, it’s become the calling card of a beautiful beginning—in myself and in the women we’re privileged to walk with. 

As I look back on five years of Magdala, I am grateful for a God Who not only heals us, but allows us to forget what does not speak of Him. It may take a whole life, but His voice patiently crowds out the sound of shame. 

And as I look ahead, this is all I can hope for Magdala: that we are a place where the slow work of God—of letting His voice break into these places—can happen in safety, so we can all say in the end: 

“Manasseh—He has made me forget.”

For further meditation: “Manasseh” by Anna Golden