Someone once said that time heals all wounds.
Allow me to be ungracious and say whoever that person was, they carry the distinction of being an idiot.
When someone has done something, intentionally or unintentionally, and it’s hurt you very badly, it’s difficult to live with the fact that there’s a person running around loose who wounded you and didn’t pay for it.
Or apologize.
Or didn’t even notice your pain.
Or, my favorite, noticed it… and didn’t care.
By saying that the passage of time will eventually heal the wound, we trivialize the pain, as if a friend or loved one’s betrayal is like unto a paper cut (a regular paper cut, not one that gets infected, goes gangrenous and eventually turns one into a zombie). The truth is that, without proper care and attention, those wounds may no longer be visible to friends and family, but they’re still there, leaking poison into your system. “Getting over it” is an active process, not something that will simply just happen.
God has spent the last eleven days re-breaking my legs (which… OUCH), and re-setting them (which… OUCH).
I’m speaking metaphorically, of course… God did not suddenly appear and pull a cosmic Kathy Bates, but the experience has been quite shockingly painful, because I have been refusing to allow healing to take place in a particular area.
Apparently, God starts to get kind-of insistent after awhile.
*grouse*
Two years ago I, very carefully, methodically, and prayerfully walked into a situation that was new and terrifying and risky and exciting. I figured, going in, that because I had done the prep work, I would be okay, and everything would work out.
I was wrong.
Choices were made that took everything that I believed about who I was and what I was worth, and set those fundamentals alight. I was devastated on a level that, being phlegmatic, I hadn’t thought possible, but even though the situation was no longer as clear as I had believed, I was still careful, I was methodical and, although I had heaping helpings of pain and humiliation, I also continued to hope.
When the train came around again (metaphors are great) I got back on, carefully, methodically and prayerfully.
I got knocked around again, for the second time. I wanted to quit at this point, which would seem like a reasonable decision, all things considered, but I still couldn’t squash this feeling that there was hope.
The third time, things actually seemed to be going my way. I was careful and methodical and prayerful and very quietly convinced that this time, I had the situation nailed.
This time, when I was knocked off the train, it rolled over me and crushed both my legs.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
After all, if it had been a real train, I probably would have been sliced in half.
There I stayed, bloody, missing a few bits, and firmly convinced that the next time that train came around, I wasn’t going to climb on… I was going to blow it sky high with a volatile combination of any explosive materials that I could find.This wasn’t the first time I had ever been hurt, but it was so much worse. This injury made all previous injuries look like bee stings.
Over time, the wounds scabbed over and grew new skin, but the muscles and sinews and vessels were wrecked. Over time, I learned to walk again, but I never stopped favoring the injury. Over time, I was able to keep the bitter twist my reaching my lips when certain topics were mentioned, but I didn’t even bother to reign in my thoughts. The only thing that time did was grow an infection that seeped into bone and ran through my blood. I wanted payment for my injury… a pound of flesh, an eye for an eye, misery for abject misery. I refused to discuss it with God (since He was not going to inflict swift and merciless judgment on my behalf), and I absolutely refused to stop imagining a deliciously petty revenge. Nothing big… no one would die, no one would be seriously injured, and I figured no one would blame me, but I wanted to feel like I had regained that piece of myself that this situation had stolen.
Eleven days ago, I woke up absolutely furious and miserable, with the pain of that situation suddenly hanging around my neck like an albatross.
Ten days ago, I told God to back off. I think He responded with, “Come over here and make me.”
Nine days ago, I sobbed my way through a two-and-a-half hour worship service and a message that stabbed me right between the eyes. Eight days ago, I got stabbed again, and sobbed. This continued right down to the fifth day, when my tear ducts collapsed, and every single day since, I have been walking around consistently hearing things like, “God is in control, and He can be trusted.”
I’d like to say that I am one hundred percent limp free now, and there is no more residue, but even now, I’m having to deliberately choose to let go of memories that are burning in my throat. It’s so much easier to be very quietly angry and stiff, and I’m uncomfortable with the possibility of ever having to face the situation again without the protective layers of my scabs (eww). I don’t know how far this particular forgiveness journey is going to take me, and I’m stating right now that if I’m supposed to have one of those *hug* *hug* *kiss* *kiss* “I have forgiven you for what you’ve done and I now bestow effusive blessings on you and your household and I LUV U“ types of encounters, I will straight up REBEL!!!!!!!
Eh. We’ll work on it.
The Vulcan Voice 