Healing

Last week, I burned the inside of my right forearm pulling a pan of caramel popcorn out of the oven. Not badly, but it hurt like the dickens for a couple hours. (Sidenote: I wonder how old Charles feels about our using his name in a phrase that describes extreme intensity? Is that complimentary or not? But moving on . . . )

Because that burn is on a spot on my arm that doesn’t get touched much, it stopped hurting pretty quickly and just started to heal. I have another burn on the inside of my right pinkie – another caramel corn injury. This one is a blister, right where the joint bends. A tiny little blemish in an unfortunate spot that gets irritated whenever I close that finger on anything. It will heal, too, but it makes its presence known a bit more often.

And then there’s the monstrous, ugly bruise on my upper left thigh from last week’s car wreck that looks like something out of a horror movie: a deep evil presence blackening my soul and silently spreading its malignity through my skin. Nah -- that’s hyperbole, people; it actually doesn’t even hurt much. It just LOOKS blacker and uglier as the healing process progresses. But again, it IS healing.

Healing. Y’all, that’s an amazing phenomenon that we yawn at too easily. Burns heal. Bruises heal. Bones heal. Hearts heal. Spirits heal.

Time heals all wounds, they say – and time is certainly a necessary element to healing. But time is not the only element, at least not always.

Sometimes, we have to help the healing along. We set bones right and put casts on them so they stay in place while they repair themselves. We bandage up open wounds so that dirt and germs and other such dangerous elements can’t enter and pollute the body. We cover and protect injuries so scabs don’t get scraped off and fragile breaks aren’t severed again before restoration is complete.

Emotional healing sometimes requires work on our part, too. As with broken bones, we re-set our errant thinking put askew by the blows of life and erect guardrails around our minds until those corrected thought-paths have forged deep furrows.

As with open wounds, we shield our hearts from infectious memories and toxic notions about our situation that will stir up the damage and prolong or prevent recovery.

And we sometimes need to put protective boundaries around our spirits to allow the fragile places to grow strong again before needing to support the weight of the world.

We rarely are restored to perfection -- scars remain and weak spots usually persist. But healing happens. Spirits and hearts and minds heal just as muscle and skin and bones do.

And we’ve ceased to recognize the wonder of that. The coffee table I see out of the corner of my eye as I type this has nicks on the corners. They can't really be fixed; the best I can do with those is find some paint or stain or something to cover up the exposed wood so it isn’t noticeable. Tables don’t heal when they get broken. Only living things heal. The fact that we can heal is evidence that we continue to live.

I made the mistake of casually mentioning in my last post that I’m spending my Christmas at home alone this year. That got all sorts of kind, compassionate friends worried about me and inviting me to their house for the holiday. Y’all, you’re sweet. But this was my choice. I wanted a “reset” this year. I don’t know if I can even explain exactly what that means, but I know it’s what I need.

I’m good. I’m healing, as I’ve been doing all year. And I’m glorying in the wonder of that.

Merry Christmas, dear friends!

And Happy Birthday to my Jehovah Rapha . . . The Lord Who Heals.