Blog


Sep
05
The Medic: A Poem about Recovery


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For Jesus, The Medic


Strongholds are insidious things.


They must be exposed in order to be destroyed.


And right now, my heart feels laid bare from the recent raid


I did on the enemy’s stolen territory in my soul.


Bathed in hope is a heart that is


Vulnerable.


Exhausted.


Raw.


Naked.


Oh, not the nakedness forced by assaulting aggression like the theft of my innocence,


the kind of violent stripping that sin-spewers commit with hands full of rage or lust…


This nakedness is more like the gentle uncovering of an old wound…


As if I am a young, maimed soldier shell-shocked and wandering on the smoldering battle field,


and the Medic sees my limping gait and rushes to my side.


He sees the laceration


And knows the infection that lies within.


(He was on the battlefield and saw the enemy’s attempt to gut me when the war was young)


He reaches for me


but I jerk away because I’m afraid His touch will hurt…


afraid to see the real damage.


My hand over the bloody hole is as good


as I can make it feel


and I’ve gotten used to


the gnawing pain in the background


used to covering it up…


accustomed


to


the


absence of health.


I feel like I’ve walked a lifetime like this.


The pain has exhausted me


but I have


convinced


myself


I can go on this way.


The Medic whispers, “Its okay, I’ve done this before. I want to help. Let me just take a look.”


I can feel the wound.


Hot and angry.


Infection writhing down to the bone.


And I shake my head no.


At least I know this pain.


Old pain is comforting for the simple fact it is familiar.


“Please. I promise to be gentle.” He says…


With an exhausted resignation


I slowly turn the injury to Him


because something inside me deeper than the wound wants to be free of this pain.


(And there is a feeble hope I can be made whole)


He gently, gingerly pulls away my hand…


(I grimace)


And then He slowly pulls away


the layers of garments,


soaked with blood.


His touch is like that of a mother, fingers as gentle as mist.


And there,


in that moment,


with all the habits drawn back…


The wound is truly exposed.


Laid bare.


Abnormal, infected and mangled.


The only thing covering it now is the earnest, assessing gaze of the Medic.


He says nothing.


But after a moment He looks at me with


kindness and compassion.


He knows I have waited too long. And He knows why.


My eyes, filling with the bubbling tears of terror and shame, meet His.


His eyes, too, are now wet with tears.


And I fear it is because there is


no


hope


for


me.


With a quivering voice I feebly beg one question,


“Can you heal me?”


His warm smile causes His own tears to change their trajectory as they roll down His face.


His voice is broken with concern


and


confidence…


“The wound is deep.


The infection is severe,


but


this


is


My


specialty.


I will do the work but you must lie still


and let the wound be exposed.


Exposure is part of how it will heal.


You will be tempted


to cover it back up


because My work will be painful at times


and your instinct will be


to hold fast to the wound


believing pressure will


ease


your


pain.


Even then I will gently hold your hand back.


Remember,


just


be


still


and know


I’m at work.


You will be healed


but I won’t leave you even after


the


healing


comes.”


Strongholds are insidious things, laced in promise.


They must be exposed in order to uncover the hope of victory.


And right now, my heart feels strong as steel for


I have been brave enough to put these old wounds


in the hands of the Medic.


Vulnerable yet safe.


Exhausted but tested.


Raw but healing.


Naked


but


reveling


in


acceptance


and


freedom.