I feel all alone. I lie here uncomfortably exposed before Him. My repressed memories, my shame, my guilt… they are on the table with me, and there’s nothing I can hide from the Surgeon. As I lie here, the pain can get excruciating, and there’s not an IV or nerve block that could eradicate this pain. That pain seems to be the only thing I feel, because all else seems numb.
After the masks and layers are peeled back, you can see that the wounds are pretty bad, and the cuts go deep. The cuts run so deep that the very life seems to be bleeding out of me at a startling rate. I’m hemorrhaging life. These wounds aren’t new though. They’ve been there.
Imagine trying to suture a gaping wound with just a band-aid. That’s why I’m lying here now. I’ve had these wounds for a long time now, but I never allowed them to heal properly. They’ve festered and gotten infected, all while I’ve just put band-aids over them.
Homosexuality.
Pornography.
People-Pleasing.
Those are just some of the band-aids I’ve used. They made me feel less wounded because they gave the illusion that I was better. But just under the surface, the wounds never healed. You can’t put a band-aid on brokenness and expect to be made whole. It’ll still be there.
As the Surgeon stands before me, a part of me wants to just jump off of the table and run, naked and afraid. But I know Him… I don’t know exactly what He’s going to do. I just have to trust Him. I can see the love in His eyes, and I know that this operation is for my good… It is necessary.
As I lie here uncomfortable and in pain, He approaches me and begins to gently rip off the band-aids. The band-aids don’t come off easily though. They’ve been there for far too long. It hurts. These band-aids were comfortable, and to be honest, they felt good. But they must go…
“What are you doing? That really hurts, dude.”
No response. The room seems to be filled with silence. But when I look up, His eyes are full of love and compassion. He is still good through the pain. I know that He feels the pain and flinches as each bandage comes off.
“Why are you doing this? This hurts soo bad.”
That line seems to be stuck on repeat, but as I say that, I remain oblivious to the scars on the hands of the surgeon. He knows a thing or two about pain.
I desperately want to reach for one of the band-aids to try to fill the gaping hole in my body. As much as I’m tempted to, I just can’t bring myself to grab the old, gross, blood-soaked band-aids again. It would not only defeat the purpose of this surgery, but it would also break the Surgeon’s heart.
My broken flesh longs for comfort, but I’m well passed that. I know the surgeon is good and loving, but His silence frustrates me. No comfort from sin, and almost no comfort from the Surgeon. I feel like just banging my head against the table in despair and agony.
The Surgeon is not alone. There’s someone else in the room. Unlike the Surgeon, his eyes are full of deceit and hatred, and his voice is obnoxious and loud. He tells me I’m never going to recover, and that this surgery will never fix me. I feel trapped against the table as he never ceases to threaten and entice me. It frustrates me that the Surgeon just seems to stand there…silent. The loud figure with eyes full of deceit constantly pushes me to get off of the table, and I feel like doing it… But one glance into the Surgeon’s eyes keeps me on the table. I’m filled with frustration, pain, and brokenness…but He promises a better life. I just can’t seem to see past the operating room.
As I lie here, I feel like I’ll be on this table forever with my insides hanging out of the wounds that have been inflicted. Exposed. Backed into a corner. Lonely. Misunderstood. Broken. Hurting.
I don’t know when…but the surgery will end. Life will be better.
The Surgeon knows what He is doing.
