Sometimes the most frustrating thing in the world can be trying to forget the past. We remember old wounds and unkind words quite easily. It is as if with each replaying of the incident, it becomes etched a bit deeper upon our soul. We hit the rewind button, listen to the whispers of the enemy and fall into the pit of self-pity, crying all the while in our best I-don’t-deserve-this martyrs’ voice, “Why do you not take this from me, Lord? Why must I suffer so with these memories?” (Anguish best portrayed with back of the hand to the forehead, slight hesitance between words and lips trembling as the voice falters and breaks…)
Ever been there? A wound that should have healed forever ago continues to cause you pain because you continue to expose it and invite infection through constant picking…. Selah (Pause calmly and think upon these things).
As a child I was forever falling out of trees, off of swings, into ditches, off of bicycles. To say I was not the most feminine flower in the garden would be a vast understatement. I had a lot of fun giving my mom all of that grey hair. During all of these “adventures” there were inevitable scrapes, cuts and bruises. I would hobble into the kitchen (’cause that’s where you found my mother at any hour of the day), my hands clenched over the offended area, the first words from my mother’s mouth were always, “Come here, honey. Let me see what has happened.” Whiny, irritable, but a bit pleased by the attention, I slowly and dramatically submitted to her instructions.
Inevitably, she would lift me onto the counter and with greatly feigned anguish I would allow her to open my grimy fingers to reveal the wound. (Imagine the grimace of a curly headed, two front teeth missing, sun burned nose kind of mischief face). Her next words were always, “Oh, see, that’s not so bad.” Funny how things are ‘not that bad’ when it isn’t your own pain you are dealing with. Easy to say that when your life is not flashing in front of your eyes… but I digress.
Anyway, she would take a soft washcloth, run it under warm water and gently cleanse the area. (She knew if she grabbed the Bactine squeeze bottle she would not see me for days). She would then hold the warm cloth against the wound until it started to feel better (and the gravel fell out). What a miracle a mother’s touch is! Her final act would be to apply a healing balm (AKA Vaseline – that magical potion that heals all, gets your head unstuck from between the porch railing and makes your hair stay in place at the same time) and seal the wound with a bandage to keep out infection.
Her instructions were to leave the bandage on and not to keep opening and closing it – because that is most definitely our tendency when it comes to wounds; we want to show everyone and remind ourselves how bad it really was. We have this morbid sense of inclusion when it comes to battle scars. Still, I knew the only time that bandage was to be removed was when mama said so. After all, everyone knows if “You keep opening that bandage up and looking at it and it’s gonna get infected.” She somehow knew I would need her there when I had to take another look. She knew I would not be able to keep my own hands off of it and I would need her comfort if there was another cleansing to take place.
I do not have to tell you where I’m going with this. Dear One, the first step in any healing process is taking our hands off of the wound and letting the Father take a good look. Only in His presence can we see things without fear ruling us and pain overtaking us. With and in Him the cleansing, the assurance, and the comfort can begin.
Yes, my friend, outside of our clenched fists there is healing. All we have to do is…
LET IT GO.
Barbie Loflin 
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