“I can see you’re still not healed.”
“You’re not ready yet. You need more healing.”
Thanks people of the world, for noticing and confirming that I’m still a broken, wounded mess. No thanks for the box of shame I feel your words put me in.
The box of the Un-Healed.
It’s the place where I’m told I’m not qualified to handle life yet, that I shouldn’t show my wounds because they’re too messy for people to see, that anything less than perfect isn’t good enough, and that I can’t dare to speak, do, or be anything outside the confines of the walls of the box of Un-Healed.
I’m supposed to heal up here in this box, because only “healed” people qualify to live outside this box–at least that’s the message I’m led to believe.
The “Healed” give me “steps” and absolute answers that are supposed to be the keys to my healing.. They tell me to pray and read my Bible more.
“Go ahead,” they say, “apply these answers to your wounds yourself. It’s what you need to do to be healed.”
They may even call this compassion.
But it’s not.
Compassion, the real key to releasing the healing balm we need for our wounds, doesn’t come from perfect prescriptions from the “healed.”
Compassion can only dispensed by the open-wounded. By those who put away their measuring sticks of perfection and revive, empower, and champion rather than rival, empale, and compare.
Connected, compassionate people create nets of healing to catch the falling, the failing, and the ones bleeding too much to ask for help. Because they know:
I know I’m not the only one suffocating, suffering, and yes, even occasionally swearing when I feel I’ve been shamed into the box of the Un-healed. I’ve found some of you there and we’ve started talking about our pain and our shame, and we’ve discovered that compassion is the key. Together, we’ve found the courage to punch our fists through the walls of the box, tearing the labels “unworthy,” “broken,” “too wounded,” and “not healed enough” that were plastered on the outside.
We know we can’t live and we can’t heal in here, in the shame of the Un-healed box. Hidden, silent, separate suffering does not heal.
A covered up wound may look better from the outside, but it always digs deeper into the flesh. It always gets worse.
Only open wounds can heal.
Open wounds are messy to look at and messy to deal with. They bleed on our white t-shirts of I-hope-you-only-see-that-I-have-it-all-together. We get stained by each other’s pain.
His blood stains us too. Our wounds became His.
And we. . .
We. Are. Him.
The Body. His Body on earth.
Open-wounded, we are able to love like He does. Bleeding together, we connect our suffering to His, our healing to His
There is no shame in living open-wounded. No. Shame. Anymore.
Yes, I’m Un-Healed. My complete and perfect healing will come the day He calls me to my perfect home. Until then, I’m going to live open-wounded.
So now, to the people of the world who see my wounds and say:
“I see you are not healed yet.”
I say, “HURRAY!”
I’m glad you see it, and I hope you always do. Because I want to invite you into my house that is a mess, with dishes in the sink and mold growing on the leftovers in the back of my refrigerator.
See the real me—Imperfect. Wounded. Sit down and let’s talk about the messiness of life. Let’s let the wounds hurt here and have no answers, no measuring sticks of perfection, no formulas for healing. I’ll serve you love offered on the used and abused chipped plate of my heart. It’s what I have to give.
Compassion is the only key that unlocks my healing.
Life hurts and healing is never perfect, so I’m choosing to live open-wounded. To dare to use the brutal to color life beautiful.
We can do this thing called true compassion.
We can put down the measuring sticks of our brokenness, and
pick up the healing keys of HOLY HEALING HEARTS.
Imperfect, open-wounded loving.
Brutal into beautiful.
Let’s dare to live–and LOVE–open-wounded to the hurting ones in our lives today.