He Will Heal Us

Come, let us return to the LORD. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds.

Hosea 6:1

For he wounds, but he also binds up; he injures, but his hands also heal.

Job 5:18

I unwrapped the thick bandage slowly, carefully. As it unraveled deeper, closer to the wounds, I could see the blood, my child’s blood, staining the fabric, sticking. The familiar, tingling tunnel vision started and I took a deep breath. I could not faint this time. 

Body, don’t betray me. I need to be strong. 

I steadied my hands and got to work.

You see, in the process of healing the deepest wounds, they must be tended daily. They must be cleansed, medicated, bound in fresh bandages. Then unbound, cleansed, medicated, and wrapped again. And again, and again. The process can be painful and requires great courage. 

But to the careful observer, the miraculous healing that is occurring deep in the unseen tissues can be seen in small ways day by day. Therein lies hope to keep risking hurt in order to heal.

As I gently poured warm, soapy, antiseptic water over the remaining bandage, I glanced up at my son. His eyes were filled with pain and fear.

He held himself very still, not yet sure if my hands could be trusted to help him heal.

Completely exposed at last, the ragged wounds demanded to be seen. To shock me. To confront my desire for a comfortable life, one where accidents do not happen, sickness does not rob children of childhood, pain does not blind one’s heart to God’s love.

I boldly looked those wounds straight on, took up my cloth, and tenderly cleaned away yesterday’s debris. 

As I applied medicine, something splashed on the wound. My eyes had turned on like a faucet at full-blast. The tears streamed despite my determination to focus, cleanse, bind, heal. I could not stop them. Love cannot be stopped.

I looked apologetically at my boy. I wanted to be strong. I didn’t want him to see the sorrow hiding in my heart. Children cannot comprehend how deeply, how intensely, a parent loves.

His eyes brimmed with tears too.

He had chosen to trust me. 

Thank You, God. Help me help him.

The next morning I withdrew alone with God to find strength to continue this heart-breaking service. I am not God. I do not have the power to heal. I need Him to help me help my son.

We need God to help us do the hard work of helping others heal. #healing Share on X

We need God to help us heal. 

As I sat still with Him, I could not seem to surrender my heart. My pain. Several years of incredible suffering had rendered it raw and wounded, much like my son’s foot. The metaphor rose up in my mind’s eye brazen, bold, visceral. I shut my eyes; there it was. I opened them; and it rose like a specter, relentless. Demanding to be seen. Horrible in its disfigurement, its brokenness.

Like my son who was not sure he could trust me to help him heal, I was not sure I could trust my Lord to heal me. 

My heart hurts too much. Don’t touch it. Please leave it alone. Don’t hurt me more.

I sat there like that for a long time. Reasoning, bargaining with God. 

Let me get my heart a little stronger and I’ll bring all of it to You, Lord.

Give me a bit more time to heal, and I’ll let you have my whole heart again.

In the quiet, I heard His gentle question.

Will you give it to me wounded? Today? As it is right now?

Again the image of my son’s mutilated foot towered in my mind’s eye. A picture of my heart.

I looked at the Lord and held myself very still, contemplating whether or not I could trust the One who wounds, but also binds up.

Yes. You may have all of it. Today.

I am in his hands now. Trusting the hands that heal even as the tears flow down from Calvary.

Lord, I have no words. Just stillness. Fear. Trust. Hope. Do your work of healing in my heart. Amen.

@audreycfrank