"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Psalm 147:3
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." -Psalm 37:18
"My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, You, God, will not despise." Psalm-51:17
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I've read those verses at least a hundred times in the past two years. Each time, I've tried to drink them in deeply, willing myself to know that they are true. Choosing to believe the truth in those promises, even if I don't feel like they apply to me.
Having a broken heart is no fun. I know from experience. You probably do, too. It hurts. Deeply. In a way that makes you wonder if the pain will ever end. And I've spent the better part of the last two years trying to piece my own back together. Band-aids on bullet wounds. Like a three year old trying to stitch up a gaping gash on their own knee. No skills, no training, no idea how to do it properly. And surprise, surprise– out of my own strength, it has done nothing.
But wait. Didn't Jesus come to bind up the wounds of the brokenhearted? Didn't he come to give us FREEDOM, for freedom's sake? Doesn't He promise that He has plans for us, works for the good of us, that He loves us radically?
So why do I sit here, months later, and cry over something that wasn't even good for me? Something that did not reflect Christ's heart towards me? Why do I miss something that left me feeling cheap, used, & worthless instead of infinitely valuable, respected, and worthy to be loved? Why do I wish for something that hardened me, caused me not to trust, and made me want to build walls around my heart for fear of experiencing that kind of pain again?
But sometimes we grasp onto that all-too-familiar pain with an iron fist because it is the only thing we can feel. Without it, we're afraid we may go numb. If we're feeling pain, at least we're feeling something.
Like a wound, a deep cut on our knee, that we are keeping open. As long as it is open, we cannot do the same things that we did before. We cannot climb or kneel or dance, yet we are not letting the Healer delicately and intricately put in stitches one at a time. We try ourselves, and rush through clumsy work that scars horribly and eventually comes undone, reopening the old wound.
I know He can heal. I've seen it. I've felt it. I know intimacy with Him. I know His heart for me. But sometimes I'm afraid. Frozen in my own doubts. I don't always know how to take that leap of faith and hand over the needle that has the capability of closing my wound once it's in the right Hand.
Song lyrics help put my emotions to words:
"You believe in freedom, but you don't know how to choose. You gotta step out of your feelings that you're so afraid to lose. And everyday– you put your feet on the floor, you gotta walk through the door. It's never gonna be easy.. But it's all worth fighting for."
And isn't it? Isn't it worth the fight? Yes, life leaves us with scars, but each day we trust Him with our wounds, they close and heal and fade. They no longer prevent us from running or dancing or skipping or loving again.
And so we come. Scarred and battered and bruised, but simultaneously whole and healed. We come back to the cross. We sit at His feet and show Him our wounds. We hand Him the needle and let Him do the work. We lean deeper into His heart. And when the wound is closed, we trust His goodness and faithfulness and healing abilities a little bit more.
