You know one of those wounds? The ones that you didn’t know got in so deep? The ones that you didn’t really pay attention to because it was a waste of your time and emotions? The ones that you just brushed off as if it was just a little bruise? But in time, it grew and grew, the cut deepened through the surface into the skin then into the bloodstream? You know those kinds of wounds?
One of the wounds that you didn’t realize affected the way you started to move. The way you started to behave. The way you started to think, because it had infiltrated so deep that it became a part of your system. Your immune system couldn’t fight it off on its own because you refused to let anyone treat it. You refused to let it get checked up and you took care of it on your own.
I mean, there are some wounds that are just small cuts, and they hurt, but you can treat it with some alcohol, ointment, and a bandaid. It may take a few days for your skin to stitch itself back together and your white blood cells to start moving to heal that area. That happens often. It leaves a little scar, but it’s barely noticeable.
But, I’m not talking about one of those wounds. I’m talking about the fall-off-your-bike-and-land-on-your-elbow-knees-and-almost-face-sliding-on-concrete-and-ripping-skin-off-wounds. I’m talking about one of those big falls. Or the other kind of wound. Those keep-falling-on-the-same-painful-&-sensitive-places-kind that are freshly reopened time and time again, because those wounds haven’t fully healed before it is disturbed once again. Sometimes the second or third time hurts even more, as it rips through the mid-healed wounds. The consecutive falls are so hard that it pierces through the mending process, causing you to start all over again. Or at least it makes you feel like you’re starting over again. All those same pains and nerve cells triggered repeatedly, causing the rest of your nearby sensitive parts to be in excruciating pain. And irritation.
“Ugh I thought this thing was over!
I thought this thing would be better in like 2 days, why is it taking so frikking long?”
You start to get angry at yourself for falling again.
For instance, it’s kinda like taking a hike. And as you’re approaching the peak, you lose your place on the rocky ground, and you slip on the boulder next to you. On the exact same place you had fallen on while riding your bike a month earlier, where a huge painful gash had come to existence. Again, that wound opens up, gushing red blood out onto your leg.
UGHHHHHHH!!!! You get frustrated and mad at yourself, which is merely a response of the real tangible pain that you’re feeling inside. The pain that you can’t control, no matter how hard you squeeze the area, no matter how much water you pour on top of it, that pain is still there. Flashbacks of the fall from the bike, the same pain, but more, is being experienced. And now, mountain dirt has gone in. Soil and even small pebbles have gone in, and you can’t seem to pick it out with your bare fingers. You’re too concerned with leaving the mountain to notice the gravel and black clots being glued in between popped blood veins.
You are home. You know your mom and dad are going to be mad at you for being active outdoors and potentially getting hurt again, when they had warned you to stay home and rest. So you don’t tell them. You know your friends don’t really care for hiking stories. So you don’t tell them either. You look at the wound and think it’s too disgusting and dark to scrub on your own and contemplate going to the hospital. But you already calculate that it’s going to be way too expensive and you don’t have that kind of money right now. So you start to treat it yourself. “Some rubbing alcohol won’t hurt right? And some painkillers? Let’s see what happens. I don’t want to bother anyone with this.”
Several days go by, and you look at your knee. Some nasty bumps have grown, white and yellow, crusty brown scabs, and a disgusting dark shape had circled around the wound. Soft and squishy, but dangerously brown. And infected looking. You still decide to wait it out and take some painkillers as you limp around, disguising the pain.
A few weeks later, you’re convinced it had fixed itself on its own and you happily go back up that mountain again after a rainy day. But as you’re approaching the halfway mark, you slip, and fall down, right on the exact same and almost-mended wound. But now you realize it wasn’t almost mended. Because when the wound reopened, red blood wasn’t coming out, but yellow pus and dark maroon colored blood started to drip. You look inside and it’s something you cannot even describe. So much dirt, blood, and mixed-up pus, lymph nodes, crust, bumps. It’s infected. And you can’t deny it.
As you limp your way down, not even attempting to finish the climb, you decide to see the doctor.
“Why didn’t you come to me earlier?” demanded the doctor. “Do you not see how terrible this infection has become? Why did you try to treat it yourself? Don’t you realize you don’t even know what you’re doing?” said the angry doctor. The doctor was a familiar stranger.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone with it. It was fine. And it would cost a lot of money…”
“You know I wouldn’t have charged you for this Judy, why’d you hesitate?”
“I don’t know… ”
“Okay, I’m sorry for yelling. Let’s take a look.”
A long diagnosis of what had happened was murmured around my ears. I was beginning to get dizzy and nauseous as the nurses scrubbed away at the wound, through the scabs, through the dirt, through the rocks, through the blood, through it all. The pain. The thick sandpaper rubbing and piecing through my open scars penetrated my skin, every fiber in my being was screaming “PAIN PAIN PAIN STOP STOP STOP”. I could only cringe and grab every area around the wound, in hope that I could to stop the pain from flowing. Clinging onto my thigh, all I could feel was dizziness, regret, pain, pain, pain.
The doctor sat me down. Told me how this little wound of mine was actually a viral door into my body, a cut that had trespassed into my bloodstream. He told me how the external factors had lingered to become poison to my body. And how the poisons had seeped through my skin and my muscles, and started to eat away at my blood vessels. My immune system had initially fought back, but with no proper treatment to help strengthen it, my immune system started to retreat. The dark circles were a sign of an infection, and the pus was a discharge of the build up of dead white blood cells fighting invading organisms. They were a sign that I needed antiseptics. They were a sign that I needed help. A sign that said, “Don’t ignore me! This is the most I can do, please, somebody, come heal me.”
By then, I was crying. The doctor just told me I needed to undergo some sugery. After weeks of disinfecting. For a stupid little wound. But that’s what needed to be done to get it all out. He told me that it will take time. It will be layers of going beneath more layers, because when I came to him, it was in deep. Like a dirty rusty nail stepped on, and stuck all the way in. Like a disease-covered thorn caught in skin and pressed all the way in. With all the medical consequences implied.
So the next several weeks, were a process. Long. Months, actually. But each appointment was a time of cleansing. And as I was cleansed, I would walk out initially very aware of what just happened. Happy and thankful, but a little paranoid. Making sure that nothing touched that area. It was extremely sensitive. I couldn’t let things get near it. I envied those who didn’t have to deal with it, or even think about it. And although I was careful, there were always rushing individuals who walked past me and accidently brushed on it, or directly ran into it, and all my nerves would scream out “PAIN PAIN PAIN”. It triggered my entire immune system, my pain radar. It was an area of repeated trauma. It was a sensitive issue.
But I know I was being purified. My wound. My body. Toxins and bodily fluids were being drained in the proper way. The right way. And everything was coming out. Things I didn’t even know were there. Microorganisms. Bacteria. Parasites. But it was a process that took time. And because the process required my wound to be continually being opened up, examined, and treated again, I had to guard and protect that area. So it wouldn’t get hurt again. Or infected. Or even bruised. People would think I was freaking out, and overly sensitive, but it was what I needed. Until I stood at a complete place of healing. And nothing could affect its pain. But even when I was so confident it was almost-mended, something would hit it, and it would be cut open once again. But not as bad as before. It was being strengthened. And getting healthier. And stronger. And I knew what to do this time. How to handle it. How to treat it the way the doctor told me.
We all have wounds, don’t we? Not just physical wounds, but inner wounds. Emotional ones. Mental ones. Spiritual ones. These are the deepest wounds. The hardest to overcome. Especially alone. The deep ones. The painful ones. The dirty infected ones. The repeatedly-traumatic ones. The increasingly-growing-and-infectious-to-a-point-it-hinders-your-lifestyle-kind of ones. These wounds go in way deep. These wounds need treatment. These wounds need proper care. These wounds need to be dug up. They need to be looked after. Cared for. Strengthened. The poisons need to be cleansed away. But that takes time. And a lot of digging up and resurfacing. Reopening. Cleansing. Which is all just a lot of pain. But it’s the right way. It’s the proper way. It’s the healing way. It’s the best way. If you want to truly be healed, you have to want it. And seek it. If you want to truly be healed, all the toxins in your life must be completely stripped from your internal system. From your mind. From your spirit. From your soul. But you can’t do it alone. You need the real Doctor. You need the real Healer. For He did not come for the healthy but the sick. Cus that’s what doctors do, they heal the sick.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.