This is not my usual kind of post, but I wholeheartedly believe that God can work through it regardless. In fact, what I’m about to share is very vulnerable for me, but I pray that others may read this and know they are not alone in suffering, especially on the account of another person’s mistakes or sin.
As we have all experienced pain at some point in our lives, I am now facing mine head on, years after the damage has been done. The unfair part, the thing that really tests me at times, is the fact that my pain was not brought about by my own sin. It was inflicted upon me by another person’s malicious actions.
It’s like someone threw a vase to the ground, watched it shatter, and then forced me to pick up the pieces of their mess. At first, I was reluctant and just let the glass shards remain on the ground. I would dance my way around the broken fractals, avoiding them at all costs. Then, over time, God softened my heart. He told me it was time to pick up the broken pieces. And so with his help, I did. I forgave. I restored relationship. I loved again.
I thought that was it – that it was safe to walk barefoot again. All of the noticeable pieces were gone, but the little shards still linger, though I don’t see them with my naked eye. My unsuspecting foot discovers the sharp, unseen slivers of glass, and they penetrate my skin. For awhile, I don’t pick any out; I know that removing them will be more painful than when they originally pierced through me. So instead of dealing with the few glass splinters, I let them add up until my foot begins to bleed and demand that I take care of the newly opened wounds.
And this is where I find myself now. Years later, after I got down on my hands and knees and picked up the glass shards, I am recognizing (to my dismay) that there are still little pieces I never saw. Even with the element of time on my side, I have still not healed completely. I find myself wondering at times if I ever will be fully okay again. The wounds that I thought were bound up and healed have reopened, and I find myself reliving the pain all over again, way after the initial damage was done. The lacerations are deep, layers upon layers of hurt and fear and insecurity all bleed out at once. I’m overwhelmed. And I ask God relentlessly, “When will I be done picking glass out of my foot?”
He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
After I have my cry sessions with my Father, he reminds me that I am not my own healer. I don’t have to pick out the shattered pieces; he wants to do it for me. Even as I wrestle and complain along the way, his goodness and stillness remain. IT’S NOT FAIR, GOD. He kneels down. WHEN DOES IT END, GOD? He lifts up my infected, glass-filled foot with his gentle hands. IT HURTS, GOD. He plucks out the brokenness one-by-one, comforting me as I scream, cry and whimper. IT STILL STINGS, GOD. He binds up my wounds and quiets my soul.