Touching the Wound
Tending to something deeper
I remember running down the path – a cement drainage ditch at the bottom of a large hill behind the apartment building I lived in as a kid. I was excited. At the end of this path was an old school, literal, sandbox. Four-by-four wooden planks framed this garden of imagination. I was going to spend the entire afternoon there. It was going to be amazing.
Trip. Fall. Knee. Rock.
I remember looking down and seeing an indentation on my knee. Then blood began to flow from what looked like a pin prick at the center of this hole. I went into shock. This was my first conscious memory of a fall with an “injury.”
Blood. Tears. Pain.
My mother had been walking behind me this whole time and came running towards me as I witnessed the blood continue to flow. She made sure it was just the cut that was the primary concern, then took me back upstairs to our apartment to tend to it.
She touched it. I jumped. Everything was so sensitive. Mom cleaned wound. With every wipe of blood, I flinched. It hurt to touch. I felt exposed and vulnerable. She used an anti-bacterial spray. It tingled. I’d never felt that before. I could see it bubble over the cut. I was crying. She covered the wound with a band-aid, to protect the healing process, and did her best to keep me calm.
My mom, who can’t take the sight of blood, was able to keep herself together enough to help her child remain calm so that she could tend to his wound. That’s love.
I’ve been navigating a few different wounds recently – wounds that aren’t necessarily visible. No, these wounds stem from things like betrayal, loss, and abandonment. They seem to make themselves known in times of significant growth or transition.
I find myself tripping over old thoughts and feelings – experiencing the old wound as if it were for the first time. Only this time, there isn’t someone walking behind me as a run towards the joy that’s set before me. There hasn’t been, in any physical sense, for quite some time.
Kid or not, I still have wounds that need tending. Some have been there for many years. Some feel newer. Sure, I have them, and carry them with me, but I don’t think they run my life. Or do they? I expend effort to work them out and work around them, manage the triggers that they’ve created, and show up in a way that is not solely informed by them. I am more than the sum of my wounds.
At this point in my life it takes effort to uncover them. They remain sensitive to the touch. I am not overly enthusiastic to completely uncover my wounds. They can still hurt. Yet I know that in order for the wound to be tended to there is some exposure, even some manual manipulation that is required. I’ve had enough cuts, bruises, muscle, and bone injuries to know this from experience.
But who will I entrust to touch my wounds? Of course, they have to be experienced. They must be gentle. I would hope they have a calming demeanor. I need to know that even if what they do hurts, it is not their intent. I need to trust that any pain I may experience in this process is temporary and for the sake of freedom from this binding pain. Freedom from having a life organized primarily around these wounds. Freedom from uninterruptible triggers. Freedom from feeling like I have to continually be on guard and protect myself – which is exhausting.
The question remains. Who shall I trust? I’ve tried answering this question with family and friends to varying degrees of success. I have assumed that people who’ve known me for a long time will in fact be able to help. I have assumed that people who had an interest in me would have the desire to know the deeper parts of me. I have assumed that people who said, “If you ever need help…” would be wanting to help with this. I have been made an ass often, but not always.
In reality many have helped. My experience is all over the spectrum from being hurt again to having interactions that were spectacularly meaningful. This strikes as quite normal. No one is perfect, and few human beings can bear the responsibility of healing the wounds of another (seen or unseen). Maybe that’s why medical doctors take an oath to do no harm rather than heal every patient?
But inner wounds are different than physical ones and there are different options for healing.
These inner wounds shape our spirit in specific ways. We become desiring of different things; reactive to different things; and interact in different ways on account of the wounds we experience. So, along with the mental, physical, and social modalities that present solid options along a healing journey, I believe there needs to an option that accounts for the spiritual formation that happens because of wounds. Many propositions exist. The one that I have found most effective in my life, and can speak to, is summed up in the person of Jesus Christ.
The person of Jesus Christ fulfills all the requirements of experience, trustworthiness, and character I have for someone who I would be willing to have touch my wounds. Establishing a tangible and tactile relationship with him turns my entire life into the environment in which my healing journey can to happen. As with any relationship and journey there is an interactive dynamic and continual unfolding. It can take a long time to work out the affects of a wound on a person. As the relationship grows so does my willingness to be opened – to be touched more deeply. With every touch I have found myself more convinced of his love, gentleness, trustworthiness, and experience.