A First Aid Kit for the Brokenhearted

Two years ago, I wrote about my daughter's theory of bike riding.  As we took off the training wheels, she said, "Little hills mean little boo-boos and big hills mean big boo-boos."  My husband said that we should just find the little hills then, and my 5-year old said, "No, Dad, we just need bigger band aids."

She knew the adventure and the freedom was worth the pain.  

As I continue to find the brokenhearted in our region, I think about the big, dangerous hill that we travel down when we enter into our own pain and the pain of others.  We don't need to be afraid; we don't need to stay in silence. We don't need to stay safe on the little hill. 

We conquer the biggest hill of our suffering, and we'll need a bigger first aid kit.

In this first aid kit for the brokenhearted, I've learned so much about prayer, about truth, about the role of creativity in healing, about the beauty of devoted community, and about the power of God to heal.  I've learned the role of telling your story, of believing the victim, of walking side-by-side, of laughter, of crying, and of rejoicing that, as my friend mentioned this morning, we have "treasures from our trials."

I'll ride down this hill with you.  I've got a great first aid kit right here.

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What would you add to a first aid kit for the brokenhearted?

A Broken Umbrella

I'm sloshing through this rainy Tuesday in my yellow boots.  I carry an enormous blue and white umbrella--big enough to cover at least 5 people.  One side of my umbrella dangles awkwardly, broken from years of abuse from high winds.

I look on with envy at folks who have very small, tightly domed umbrellas that fit securely over their heads and fall just above their purses or backpacks:  unbroken, private, and effective in keeping one person protected.

Why would I want a big, broken umbrella when I could have a perfect, made-for-one version that covers me fully?  That's the way to stay safe in this storm.   

Isolated!  Secure!  Proud!

It only appears beneficial.  As I think more about that perfect umbrella, I think of the loneliness that security brings.  I don't want to be alone in that perfect umbrella; I want you here with me under this broken one.

Let's walk in this storm together and stay vulnerable.  We'll have to cling tightly. We'll have to feel the rain.  But we're together and more safe than we could imagine. 

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 Isn't community a beautiful thing?

Does He Really?

I'm reading the forward to Immaculee Ilibagiza's memoir, Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust.  I'm overcome by this quote by Dr. Wayne Dyer:  "The laws of the material world do not apply in the presence of the God-realized."

I have no idea what I'm getting into when I read Immaculee's account.  It's horrifying, shocking, and impossible to imagine.  And yet, in the midst of this woman's battle to survive the genocide of millions--including her own family--she forgives, loves, and experiences God in supernatural ways.

She hides in a tiny bathroom with 7 other women for 91 days while killers hunt for her.  91 days.  In a bathroom smaller than a closet.  With 7 women.  What does Immaculee do?  She prays.  She receives comfort from a real God who really hears prayer, who really protects, who really directs, who really loves, and who really gives us power to let go of hurt and anger.  This God heals.     

Her material reality told her one truth, but God's reality was something totally different.  

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Journal:  Let's pray that we have the faith, courage, and love that Immaculee does. 

When Your Scars Leak (Warning: Graphic Image of a Cat's Infected, Although Missing, Eye)

Yesterday, my daughter cries out that Jack's scar is leaking. 

Remember Jack?  Our one-eyed cat, over this past year, seemed fully recovered from the day we rescued him:  he learned to purr again; he discovered his lost meow; he started caring for other cats; then he learned to stand up for himself against the other cats; and finally, he learned how to knead the bed like normal kitties do.

He was fully alive, fully cat. 

We hardly notice the scar anymore.  It's only when other folks come over and comment that we remember.

Infected Eye Wound

But the wound where his eye once was becomes infected.  The vet says the infection is so great, so deep, that it has to burst out of the scar. 

We hold Jack all evening.  We care for the infection, treat it with medicine, and give special attention to him. 

I remember that sometimes wounds leak.  Even after a year of healing, the old scar can ooze.  Just because we don't notice the wound, one day, it bursts back into our lives and threatens us with that discouraging reminder.

But we aren't discouraged.  We go back to the basics.  We hold him, love him, and treat him.  We aren't shocked or repulsed.  It's part of his journey, and we're right here with him. 

Living with flair means I'm in this with you.  Even when the old wounds leak out, we go back to the basics, take care of one another, and let the healing begin again. 




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Journey:  When old wounds leak, how can I keep from being discouraged?

Going to the Bottom of the Well

Just this week, a dear friend of mine describes herself as  "holding on to the edge for dear life so she doesn't fall to the bottom of the well."

You grip the well's ledge, keep your chin up, and refuse to fall. 

It's a haunting image of a life lived in fear of surrender.  My tight grip on the ledge represents a picture of what I cannot face on the road to personal transformation, freedom, and joy.   I'm afraid of what's down there if I journey deeper into places of brokenness.  Can't I just stay up here, white knuckled, with my jaw clenched, fighting? 

All day, I consider how I need to let go of my tight grip on my life, trying to hold everything together in that desperate and clenched way that drains out the life and hope. 

A friend looks her straight between the eyes and says, "You need to let go and fall to the bottom of the well."  That's the way to begin to heal. 

But what happens when she lets go?  What fearful thing awaits?  She cannot do this alone. 

Another friend says, "I'll fall to the bottom with you."

And another, days later, adds:  "God is at the bottom of the well." 

We release our grip, surrender to the work of healing God wants in our lives, and look around.  We aren't alone:  Friends journey down into the darkness with us, and God himself embraces us at the moment we let go. 


(Photograph of a well in Argentina, Creative Commons)

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Journal:

Today, I remember a quote from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke:  "Works of art always spring from those who have faced the danger, gone to the very end of an experience, to the point beyond which no human being can go. The further one dares to go, the more decent, the more personal, the more unique a life becomes."  

What danger do I need to face? 

From Cowardly to Courageous

My little cat, Jack, advances even further in the direction of being fully alive.  Once wounded, this now strong kitty first relearns how to purr.  Then he figures out how to meow again.   Then, he moves past his wounds and chooses to love and serve others.  Finally, he begins to master basic feline behaviors like kneading. 

My daughter asks me, "Mom, what else will Jack do as he becomes more and more like a healthy cat?"  I have no idea.  But we wait and we watch.

Recently, a friend delivers a gift to our three cats.  It's a huge, fluffy cat bed to sit by my rocking chair.  But we have three cats.  Who will get this soft bed?   Jack has no chance, especially with that one cat (Louie,  alpha male) who dominates every household scene.  Normally, Jack cowers around the others.  The three cats stand there, observing this amazing bed. 

Then it happens.  Jack moves forward and claims the bed for his own.  He transforms from cowardly to courageous right before our eyes.  He kneads the bed, turns a few circles, and has slept there ever since. 

I watch that little cat, and I remember God's work as Healer.  

On our way to recovering from whatever wounds us, we suddenly realize the plans in store for us.  One day, we find we have the courage to move forward, claim our dreams, and stand up to those that threaten us.  We discover our place.   We find we are so healthy that nobody even remembers where we came from or how we were wounded. 

We find we are fully alive, doing all the things we were meant to do.  Nothing holds us back. 

How You Know You're Getting Better

Do you remember the story of my one-eyed cat, Jack?  We rescued this wounded kitty and brought him into our home.  He couldn't even purr, he was that broken.  But we knew his purr was in there somewhere. 

We brushed him, fed him, bathed him, pet him, and loved and loved and loved him.  And one day, he found his purr. 

But he still had no voice; this kitty could not meow.  We stuck with this messed up cat--despite the one eye, the injured mouth, and the tail that wouldn't hang right.  We kept loving him. 

And a year later, he stood tall and proud in the kitchen and let out his first squeaky meow. That cat found his voice.  It took a year, but he learned to meow again.

A few months later, I discover that my wounded cat is serving another cat, holding her down and bathing her.  Jack couldn't purr a year ago, and now he is taking care of others.  I couldn't believe it. 

Well, it gets better. 

Last night, I'm reading books with my daughter in her bed, and Jack hops up on top of us and starts doing this strange dance.  He'd press his front paws in and then arch his back and press his back paws into the blanket.  He could hardly keep his balance, and he was tangling himself up in the sheets. 

"What is Jack trying to do?"  we laugh and ask each other.  We stay very still and observe him.  Then, we realize what is happening. 

Jack is attempting a behavior that all domestic cats do (but Jack never did).  He is kneading. 

All cats, when they feel content and safe, press their front paws in and out like they're kneading bread.   Some say that when cats do this, they remember their kitten days of pressing against their mother to get milk.  Others claim that cats only enact this ritual when they feel at home.  They knead a space to mark it as their bed, usually right next to their mother. 

Jack never did this. It's like he had no memory of even being a happy kitten or being at home.  Maybe because he wasn't.   But last night, Jack tries to knead.  Kneading, however, represents a complex instinctual action.  Cats alternatively flex each paw, press in, and then retract their claws as they lift each paw.  Only the front paws knead. 

Jack has no idea how to do it, but some kitty instinct kicks in.  We watch Jack attempt to knead the bed.  He starts, falls over, and then tries again with his back paws (all wrong!).  Eventually, as he purrs loudly and rolls all over us, he gets it right.  He presses his front paws in, alternating between left and right, before he curls up and falls asleep beside my daughter.

He found his purr.  Then he found his voice.  Then he found a way to serve despite his wounds.  Then, then, he began to remember his true self--becoming fully alive and doing what he was meant to do.  Finally safe, finally at home, Jack starts to act like a real cat in every way. 

There's hope for us all, no matter how wounded.  

How to Be Sick with Flair

All night long, a fever rages, and I can't keep warm no matter what I do.  I'm coughing so much that I actually lose my voice.  I can't talk on the phone; I can't boss my family around; I can't even go to church and call out my welcomes. 

I try to get out of bed while everyone else is at church, but then I flop back down on the pillow.  I have no energy.  I'm suddenly amazed by how the body takes the energy it needs to get better and forces you to conserve it.  You stay in bed.  You don't move.

I can't stand the lack of productivity.  I actually devise a grand plan with my lost voice.  I can make a vow of silence and pray all day.  How godly!  But when I try to get my Bible and journal, I flop back down on the pillow once more.  Forget it.  I'm too weak.  

I'm worried about how in the world my husband got everybody ready for church and who handled all my responsibilities there.  And I'm worried about who's cooking dinner. 

My family returns from church, and the girls bound into my room like little gazelles leaping about the bed.  Their outfits are adorable, and my husband has actually fixed their hair.  The youngest has the smoothest pony-tail , and their faces are clean and bright.   I can't stop looking at that pony-tail.  For years my husband has announced, "I don't do hair.  I'll do everything else, but I can't do hair."

But he did it. I look again at that hair and realize how God provides, even down to the pony-tail.  And then a friend sends the message that she's bringing hot soup.   I turn over in my blanket and realize my God-given assignment.  Stay in bed.  Don't move.  

There's nothing I can do, so, for once, I learn how to let God provide.

The Next Step

My one-eyed cat, Jack, has taken another important step.  

Remember how wounded and sick Jack was?  How unattractive and miserable?   We brought him home and gave him all the love we could.   He'd lost his ability to purr.  He couldn't even meow.  His whole kitty identity seemed withered and dying. 

Then one day, he found his purr again, deep and rich and wild.  We were petting him, and we heard the slow chug, like some distant train coming from a far-off country.  He's purring!  Then, nearly a year into his recovery, he stood in the kitchen, proud and tall, and let out his first meow.  That kitty self was back. 

The One-Eyed Cat Serves

It gets even better.  Yesterday, I walk into my bedroom, and I see the once lonely and wounded kitty in a warm embrace.  He's holding another cat.  He's holding her still and bathing her face and the back of her ears!  As I watch this display, I realize that Jack's journey has reached yet another point of healing. 

I snap a picture of him and think of what it means to care for somebody.  The once-wounded cat is now serving others.   

Living with flair means that we don't stay wounded.  We press on, find ourselves again, and discover where we might serve.  Even if you've had a loss that changes how you see everything (and limits you), there's hope towards a journey of healing-turned-ministry.  Maybe that's the best kind.  Maybe Jack is particularly good at caring for other cats because he's come back from the worst. 

The One-Eyed Cat and His Friend

Maybe I'm particularly good at helping folks live with flair because I lived without it for so long.  How could I not offer an embrace, hold you still for a moment, and speak out whatever words might help make today meaningful? 

 

5 Blisters

I count 5 blisters on my hands.

I touch each one.  A blister is the fluid that collects to protect the skin underneath from damage.  With that bubble of liquid in place, the layer below stays safe and can heal from whatever assaults it.  The blister is the skin's defense mechanism.

These particular blisters arise out of an afternoon of raking leaves and building leaf houses with my daughters.  We map out rooms to our imaginary homes and pile up leaves for walls.   In our minds, the architecture rises up, brick by brick, and materializes over our heads.  An imaginary fire roars in the fireplace.  An apple pie bakes in the leaf oven.

It isn't until I come inside to grade papers that I realize the damage to my hands.  These blisters are perfect protection from what I didn't even perceive was wrong.

I didn't tell my body to do that.  I didn't even know it was happening.  What an intricate design the body is that it protects and repairs without our permission, without our even knowing!  So while I'm off imagining a life in leaves, something makes that layer I need to live outside of imagination.  It's protects me when I don't perceive harm.

Blisters remind me of God's loving protection--the kind I don't invite or often value, placed right in my hands so I can heal.  

The Best Definition of Courage

My daughter and I were talking about taking her training wheels off and learning to ride a bike.  She became very quiet and said, "You know, Mom, little hills mean little boo-boos.  And big hills mean big boo-boos."

I said, "So I guess you want to avoid the big hills on your bike." 

She paused and said, "Oh, no.  It just means we need a bigger first aid kit."

There you have it:  Courage means I ride full speed ahead, anticipate the wounds, and prepare with a great first aid kit.  For my daughter it means Hello Kitty band aids.  For the rest of us, it might mean we fill our kits with authentic friendships, strong ties to a community, a vibrant relationship to God, and the kind of space to heal.  It's not the height of the hill that matters.  It's not the danger, the risk, or the potential for failure.  Wounds are likely.   So I build the best first aid kit I can.  That's some 5 year old flair.