Boo Boos and Band-aids

When I was a little girl we lived in an area that combined apartments, condos, town homes and single family houses.  It was a kid’s dream.  There were always friends to play with and things to do.  My very best friend was named Dava.  We were strong and independent kindergarteners who roamed the neighborhood with adventurous spirit in Mary Jane dress shoes.  I was little in stature but a giant in spirit.

One particular day when the play was over, I began the journey from her townhome manor to my apartment castle where my mother had prepared a feast for my lunch.  Life was good and my journey home would be quick.  I had no idea her brother was lurking around the corner to scare me.  He came after me and my heart skipped a beat. Unfortunately for me, up the steep rolling pavement I was climbing in my Mary Janes, my feet also skipped a step.  Down I went.  The skin from my knee tore and I was in horrible pain.  My story book play day turned to the most horrific tragedy.  Blood was pouring down my leg and as any good princess would do, I went screaming for help!

My mother came running out of our apartment castle and scooped me up.  When her soothing voice had settled my hysterical cry, she began to tell me of the best plan to make it all better.  It was probably a good idea to go to the doctor for stitches, she said.  NOOOOOO!!!!  What was she thinking?  How could she possibly want me to endure such pain and torture?  Wasn’t it bad enough that I was already hurting?  My sad eyes and balloon size tears convinced her against her better judgment.  She stuck me in the bath and so began a summer of irritating, painful play days.

You see I didn’t listen.  I was convinced that more pain couldn’t help my hurt.  I was convinced that doing the hard thing … the scary thing … could not be the right move.  I played for weeks with huge bandages on my knee.  In the heat, they would peel off and my wound would be exposed.  The wound would reopen and I kept going through the agony of it all over again.  I watched while all of my friends swam in the pool and I couldn’t.  I watched while they played in the grass and rolled around, sliding down hills on the magic carpet of a cardboard box, but I could not because it still hurt!

As an adult I still have a scar about an inch long on my left knee.  I and my mother are convinced that it wouldn’t be there if I had just been willing to see the doctor and do the hard thing.

Makes me think that many of us bear scars from days that should have gone totally right but just didn’t end up that way.  In our emotions, we sacrifice what’s best for what will feel better at the moment.  Wisdom gently tells us we must take our wound to the great physician but we insist on ignoring the truth.  Coddling our hurt, we try to bandage it.  We try to take care of it.  Why isn’t it healing?  Why isn’t it getting better?  Why can’t we enjoy life, while we watch others have joy and peace?

Any hurt not subject to the expectation of healing is a force that will scar your faith till healing comes.  Open wounds break open, but faith in our Healer closes even the deepest wound with skill and precision.  His healing leaves us able to remember the adventure without the scar of pain.  I must admit, I remember the pain of that day not only because I was hurt but because I continued to hurt long after healing should have come.  The enemy loves to mock our Faith with memories where we never even gave God a chance to be our physician.

Run home and let God take care of your wounds.  Let Him bring it to a close and live pain free from the past from this day forward.

Psalm 147:3 MSG  He heals the heartbroken and bandages their wounds.