On Wounds

After a beautiful afternoon on the water I beached the kayak. I stood up, wobbled a bit and put one foot out of the kayak and into the water. That foot landed on some slippy rocks and went flying. I went under, dumped the kayak and ended up soaking wet with a terrible bruise on the back of my leg.

I dropped one of the boys off at kindergarten. I put the baby in the back, got her buckled into her car seat and then slammed the back door of the car on my finger. The blood poured. It took a nice long visit to the ER and some stitches to put the tip of my finger back together.

As a child I was running in the hall, I slipped and fell, hitting the side of my head on the baseboard. The top of my ear was cut open. A trip to the ER, and stitches left a permanent 'mutant' ear attached to the side of my head.

I stepped on some glass. I sprained my ankle. I sliced open the side of my arm, left it gaping and bleeding.  Cuts, bruises, scrapes, broken bones, blood, stitches.... wounds.

Each wound leaves a mark, sometimes permanent scars, other times temporary,  bruises fading through black, blue, green and yellow.  Sometimes the story is traumatic, remembered for all time. Other times the scars remain and yet the story fades out of memory...wounds.

All of those are surface wounds, here today, gone tomorrow. The bumps and scrapes of a human existence. Unfortunately there are wounds much deeper. Cuts and bruises on the heart and soul of a person. Wounds that scab over, yet can seep and bleed at the slightest touch.

Often these wounds go unrecognized. They lie there under the surface, oozing and festering.  Then, someone, completely unaware, makes a comment that rips me open and leaves me weeping and bleeding. I lash out, blame them for being cruel. Yet it is not their fault that they bumped into one of my unseen wounds.

Each time someone brushes up against my wounds, I hurt, I cry, I probe the tender spots, like poking at a bruise to see how deep the hurt goes. I'm learning to see that the hurt comes from within, from the scars on my heart and not from something that someone has done to me. As I look at my wounds, poke and prod, weep and wail, I'm letting the poison out so they can heal clean.

It isn't pretty. It isn't fun. But I feel that it is necessary.

I've also learned that all too often I poke into someone else's wounded spots. My intentions are good but it hurts them none the less. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause pain. I don't even know what I've said or done. The hurt remains. It is easier to forgive myself because I recognize the wounds of the heart.

I realize now that there is nothing I can do to ease the pain of someone else's heart wounds.  There is no bandage for the blood. There are no stitches for the gaping holes in the heart.  All I can offer is my sympathy. To those whose wounds I've touched and to myself as I struggle with my own inner wounds.

We all carry wounds deep in our heart. When I say something or do something that hurts you, I offer my most sincere apologies for poking at your wounds. When your words or deeds scrape up against my wounds, I forgive you and I thank you for calling my attention to another area that needs my loving attention so that I can heal my wounds.