God Bless My Healers

CRASH! The lid to the sugar dish exploded on contact with the floor, scattering shards of glass in every direction. Anger flashed briefly in my eyes but was quickly replaced by embarrassment. What was now debris had once been part of a beautiful set of China handed down for generations. Clumsily putting away our morning coffee, the blame was all mine for destroying an irreplaceable heirloom.

This ornately decorative item didn’t mean much to me, but was special to Kim. Flushed with shame, I mumbled an apology to her. This was just one more thing to add to the growing list of mistakes I have made lately.

Functioning with a wounded hand hasn’t been easy.

It has been one month since my injury. For those who did not read my last post, Injured!, while working in the garage with my table saw, my right thumb and index finger were cut by the powerful blade. My thumb suffered several deep tissue cuts and my right index finger was amputated at the end joint, shortening my finger by about an inch.

Still stitched and wrapped in a splint, my finger protrudes awkwardly and interrupts a lot of previously normal activities (like putting away a sugar dish). My thumb is bandaged and stiff, further impeding my ability to perform simple tasks.

Everything is healing, but it’s a frustrating, slow process.

For the first two to three days after the accident, the pain was severe and I stayed home generally surrendering to my situation. Unable to focus my thoughts to any real extent, I confined myself to my recliner and binge-watched episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Kim patiently attended to me, alerted me each time medine was due and performed all but my most basic tasks.

During that time, the outpouring of support from my friends and family was amazing. Texts poured in checking on me and telling me that I was in their prayers. Meals arrived routinely, and every request that I made for help was honored.

Over time the intensity of the discomfort has subsided, allowing me to resume an expanding list of activities. However, the pain has continued either unexpectedly searing while I sit still or when I bang my finger into something as I instinctively move through reflexive motions.

Worse than the physical pain are the agonizing, traumatic flashbacks. Like a gif file attached to a text message that loops every few seconds, my brain conjures recurring images of my injury. Each repetition causes me to cringe and try unsuccessfully to shake the visions out of my head as they ruthlessly repeat again and again. My brain brutally holds me captive while it resurrects a nightmare, trying desperately to process details to keep me safe in the future.

My thumb is the lesser injury, This week I removed the tape and gauze, thinking it had healed adequately to be exposed. One of the gashes across my thumbpad is angry-looking, purple scar tissue. The other gash is still covered with a long scab. In the spot with the deepest cut, the wound is still open. Immobilized for a month, my thumb joint has a very limited range of motion. Overall, it is ugly to look at and people automatically wince when they see it.

Hoping to be encouraged by removing the bandages and seeing progress, instead disappointment was my reward. It is worse than I had imagined it to be.

I try not to talk much about it to the people in my everyday circle. While my mind may be constantly attentive to the invisible spasms racing through my nervous system, their minds are occupied by more pleasant thoughts. Why would I want to drag them into my distress?

All of us suffer injuries during our life, whether physical, emotional or spiritual. The initial trauma passes in a few days, but the pain lingers for a long time. Healing comes excruciatingly slowly and continues long after the rest of the world has returned to their routine.

People tell me that they are praying for me, and I believe them. Most of them ask for rapid healing and some petition for miraculous restoration. They love me and hate to see me in pain. I am grateful.

Although I can now perform most tasks, the twinges are disruptive to my concentration. My thoughts can be heavy knowing that my hand will take a long time to stabilize and at some level will never be the same. I have prayed for supernatural intervention, but acknowledge that it may not come.

However, my greatest request isn’t for the pain to go away, At some level, I accept that it is part of this life. If I were suddenly immune to its effects, my connection to people in this broken world would be simulataneously shattered. That price for comfort would be too high. Pain is part of my bond to loved ones. Feeling its torturous effects makes me empathetic to others.

The truly frightening part of pain is loneliness. Overwhelmed by suffering, no one else can break through while we try to forcefully trap a monster inside a locked box. During that battle, we are alone.

When healing lasts for days, weeks, or even months the physical duress can be easier to endure than the emotional isolation.

During the past weeks, most of my prayers have been for God to comfort me. I crave reminders that I am loved, for Him to wrap me in His arms and give me His peace. While my body screams for relief, my soul cries out for sympathy.

God has overwhelmingly answered my prayers. Every day, many people reach out to me in different ways. They are inspired by the Spirit, and I am thankful for each effort, large or small. Whether they are aware or not, they are my Healers.

Kim has constantly been by my side. Erin held my hand during surgery. Mary Jo visited me in the hospital. Pam cleaned the house so we wouldn’t have to see the mess left behind. Columba brought dinner. Carra changed my bandage and monitored my progress. Both Steves checked in daily. James drove up from Austin to offer help. Hank did woodworking for me. Lana encouraged me to share my story. Countless others played a part.

Every text and call brought me comfort. Each simple act of assistance provided a reminder that I am loved. Patiently reading my thoughts in this blog and posting a response is an act of consideration.

If I ask you to focus on the word “healer” and tell me what you envision, most people would describe a doctor or nurse. Although I am enormously grateful to them for their skill, there is another powerful version of a healer that applies to most of you.

Thank you for each time you have acted in compassion. You are an extension of the Father, who is more powerful than a mere Creator. He is a Reconciler who restores broken people back to the original plan.

You hold the power to ease pain. Don’t believe that your gift is small or your capability limited. To this broken person, you were precisely the relief that was needed. You sat with me in the dust, reminding me that I am never alone.

Ironically, this mortal body continues to heal itself while our timeless souls can sustain lasting damage. While physical pain may lay claim to my body, I have prayed without ceasing to bring comfort to my ailing spirit. God heard my cries and responded with compassion. He sent you.

Too many people to name have given me a measure of healing these past four weeks. Hopefully, I can honor you by passing along the same gift to others. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude.

You are my Healers. God bless you.