Today, I went to morning prayer for our monthly small group leaders prayer meeting, and although I had wanted us to meet to pray for greater vision (and I suppose we did), I somehow found myself in the middle of a circle of the other small group leaders who had decided it would be a good idea to pray for me after I shared with them that I currently felt "meh" and "stuck".
I took a moment to pray for myself too, and a very vivid image passed through my mind: splotchy and sensitive skin that typically accompanies severe burns. It was jarring (not to mention, random), and I just couldn't shake the idea as I prayed because I felt like it was reflecting my inner condition: raw, sensitive, aching-- but a little too scary to look at and a little too painful to touch.
And I felt like God was saying, Sarah-- will you let me look at you? Will you let me treat you?
And I felt myself protesting-- but it's too severe, and You'll take too long, plus, I think I'll be okay if I just suck it up and act normal and cover the wounds just enough so that minor irritants won't be able to cause further harm.
But I know how silly this is.
His Words have always been the balm to my devastated soul.
His presence has always been the covering over my bareness.
His love has always been the ointment that heals and makes things like new again.
And yet I often try so hard to keep going without because receiving and enjoying those things requires me to sit still. I have to sit still and let Him apply the ointment, day after day, however slowly and carefully and tenderly, but I-- having things to do and places to be and people to take care of-- cannot stand the idea of being so immobile for a seemingly indefinite period of time, gritting my teeth against the slight pain that results from His applying pressure, and straight up crying when I can't handle it anymore. I want to say, Lord, You enable me to jump to the highest heights and swim against raging currents-- not, Lord, you enable me to barely lift a trembling cup of water to my parched mouth.
But this is where I apparently am, so I must be humble, with a broken and contrite spirit, as well as expectant and trusting. After all, His restoration process is thorough.
Let me be patient, let me be still-- and do not delay with Your healing hand, Lord!
And I felt like God was saying, Sarah-- will you let me look at you? Will you let me treat you?
And I felt myself protesting-- but it's too severe, and You'll take too long, plus, I think I'll be okay if I just suck it up and act normal and cover the wounds just enough so that minor irritants won't be able to cause further harm.
But I know how silly this is.
His Words have always been the balm to my devastated soul.
His presence has always been the covering over my bareness.
His love has always been the ointment that heals and makes things like new again.
And yet I often try so hard to keep going without because receiving and enjoying those things requires me to sit still. I have to sit still and let Him apply the ointment, day after day, however slowly and carefully and tenderly, but I-- having things to do and places to be and people to take care of-- cannot stand the idea of being so immobile for a seemingly indefinite period of time, gritting my teeth against the slight pain that results from His applying pressure, and straight up crying when I can't handle it anymore. I want to say, Lord, You enable me to jump to the highest heights and swim against raging currents-- not, Lord, you enable me to barely lift a trembling cup of water to my parched mouth.
But this is where I apparently am, so I must be humble, with a broken and contrite spirit, as well as expectant and trusting. After all, His restoration process is thorough.
Let me be patient, let me be still-- and do not delay with Your healing hand, Lord!
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