The Wound

I think my silence has spoken enough in itself.

Often my prayer has been "Jesus pray for me, for i haven't the words to say". My dad died. He was there one minute and then he was gone. And now I am heartbroken.

Heartbroken is an understatement. It is a big, gaping wound slashed right across my heart. It is a bloody mess and I'm stumbling around, chest clutched, trying to function. Trying not to go into shock at the sheer sight of my injury. At first the adrenaline kicked in and I hardly knew what happened. But now I stand in a pool of my hurt and pain. It's the last place I expected to be. It's a miracle I can stop the bleeding at some points.

Often times I find my hands aren't sufficient.

My own hurt has made me highly sensitized to that of others. I'm perfectly capable of conversing with someone and they haven't a clue as to my situation. They can't see my wound because I manage to throw on a mask. It's highly superficial, and under it the wound festers and grows.

But my mask does the job for the moment.

So now I've realized, if I have this artificial mask, the product of my own feeble attempts to looking the part, then others must too right? If I'm capable of hiding my pain then the person on the other side of this conversation is just as capable as well. We all have these awfully messy wounds that we hide. Heaven forbid someone see the blood.

I think it would almost be better if we really did walk around with these gaping wounds.

People would be more inclined to help. I could never walk by someone who was hanging onto dear life bleeding to death. I would venture to say that these internal wounds of the heart, mind, and soul are worse than any physical pain one could experience. Those goes away in due time. But these internal injuries, they are the ones that sting when you hear a song. They break open and bleed again certain times of year. They tear open at a thought, a memory, a sound.

How much better would it feel if I could manage to rip my hands off my own injuries, off my own hurt and pain, to put them on the wound of another? The initial sting of air upon letting go of my wound would be excruciating.

But my hands can heal the wound of another.

I said before they're not capable of holding my own flesh. Someone else's hands aren't afraid to reach into a wound and pull out the infection. Infection, not the injury itself, can often be what ruins us. It spreads through us- the anger, hate, bitterness, and guilt mix together into a potent disease that can infect us. But another's hands would risk the pain of plunging deep into the wound to rid us of infection. They don't seem to be afraid to dig around for a while. Afterwards they can offer healing and hope. Those hands can press on the hurt to staunch the flow of blood from oozing out. They're like salve and begin to seal us, cleanse us, heal us. How selfish of me to clutch my own wounds? Pulling off our masks and stretching our hands towards another feels terrible at first. But maybe, just maybe, healing can begin from this place of vulnerability.

Yes, I am heartbroken. You are clutching your pain. Let us hold each other.