You can’t take back what you have done/You gotta keep your heart young.
-Brandi Carlile
In our tough and often unbending world our gentleness can be a vivid reminder of the presence of God among us.
-Henri Nouwen
I’m afraid the pain will make me hard. Anxious that the aches will dry up whatever gentleness I had left in me. That the pain will only give me eyes for myself. I see people all the time with chronic pain and the elderly in tired bodies. Some of them have deep lines etched into their faces, and even speaking or pulling out a piece of paper to hand me takes too much effort. Some of them speak soft and gentle, with eyes that know pain but still contain light. And life and pain have taken too much from others still, leaving them with permanent pain lines, with an eternal sharp tone, always expecting the worst.
These are some of the bruised wicks, broken reeds among us. I suppose we really are all in chronic pain of some kind, chronic brokenness. I’ll be honest, I too feel like a bruised wick most of the time. Unable to hold a flame, or keep a light burning. Every day, I rise and wonder if this will be the day I can’t make it. Will the pain, the exhaustion be too much this day? Most days I can set my mouth and go about the day’s tasks, only to fall on my couch at the end of the day in a wrung-out heap. I can’t keep up with everything asked of me, or everything I want to do. And it seems like every time I start to do something healing, like take up walking or stretching or giving up dairy, something else happens to put me back to square one. Maybe it’s like climbing up a huge mountain and being told not to look down. Maybe it’s not always a good idea to dwell on where you’ve been and what you‘ve lost or given up. Maybe you really need to just focus on what’s in front of you. Take another step. When I stop to think about how long this journey to health has been going on, it’s discouraging. When I think of all the supplements, the rest, the Netflix marathons, the sick time taken, the waiting rooms, the tests, the food sensitivities, the unknowns, the suffered relationships, well-it’s heartbreaking.
With no obvious answers or ease of pain about to happen, I see these as choices before me…gentle or hard, soft or hard, tight or flexible, peaceful or anxious. What will I choose this day? I am determined to choose life, to choose faith. To do what I can do, and not merely focus on what I can’t. To be thankful for the gifts that God has given me-the husband, the grace, the friends, the family, the job, the freedom, the rain, the gospel, the God-Man of Jesus Himself, His precious Word, and words themselves. To still have eyes to see the glory of nature, the glory of humankind. To still have a heart that breaks with the sorrows of the world--bombings and kidnappings and lives broken and lost. To still have hands that can work and reach out to comfort others. To still have a sense of humor and goodwill in this world. To still have ears that hear the music of pianos and guitars and human voices and babies in churches and waiting rooms. To still have feet to sink sand-deep and run in waves. I will keep asking, seeking, knocking, and remember the gentleness and love of a Savior King who went through so much more for the redemption of this entire sad and beautiful world.
