When healing comes slowly

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Shattering! We use the word so lightly but it is also the only word I can use to describe what I had seen. Like Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall, brokenness surrounded me -  broken pieces, broken hearts, broken people, and broken me.  How do you recover from heart-breaking trauma? How do you cope? How do you heal?  These were the questions I sat on the beach pondering.

The beach and my bible, my go to places when life becomes overwhelming.  I read the story of Jesus healing the blind man with spit in Mark 8:22-26 and mentally pushed it aside. It didn’t appear to have any connection to my current pain but the comment in the accompanying devotional caught my attention: “This encounter reminds me that God is not in a rush. The intimacy the man shares with Jesus – the hand-in-hand journey, the level of touch and connection – would not have happened in a quicker, less-messy experience.” (1.) I was pulled back into the story by the word "messy". Life looked very "messy" right now. I was no longer outside the story as a reader, but inside as a participator. I was that blind man.

A trauma had caused this man to be blind, like me. He was lost, directionless, confused in his pain, going through the motions of life but not part of life. How did he meet Jesus?  We don’t know. Did someone take him to Jesus, or was it a surprise encounter?  Did Jesus see him from a distance and purposely walk to him?  However it happened, it doesn’t really matter, Jesus found him and took his hand.

I have always found this a puzzling story.  Why did Jesus not heal right there and then? Why did he do such a roundabout method of healing? Why not instantaneous?  Instantaneous is good.  I like instant miracles, quick fixes, problem sorted, box-ticked-outcomes but this is not always the case, nor is it life.  Sometimes, Jesus takes us the long route.  Sometimes healing comes slowly.

Jesus took him, took me, by the hand. When our heart is broken, when pain has robbed us and we cannot see the way forward, or the way home, Jesus comes close. Close enough to take us by the hand.  Close enough to whisper, “fear not, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you by my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)   I put my hand in his and feel its strength, I feel its callouses – this is a hand that works hard, is not afraid of getting dirty, its real and ‘human’. I trace the scars in this hand – scars of pain.  The one who this hand belongs to, knows pain too – intense pain and sorrow – the heart-breaking kind. This is a hand that speaks without words, “trust me, I know.”

Jesus leads the blind man outside the village.  The blind man doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know what is going on.  He shuffles along gripping tightly to the hand, listening intently to the one who is leading him.  The blind man is walking closely, intimately with Jesus.  This healing journey is a journey to intimacy – leaning onto and into Jesus.  Yes, Jesus could have healed him instantly but instead he chose to come close, to draw this hurting, broken man to himself.  This was a journey I too could take – this slow, shuffling journey back to wholeness, leaning onto and into Jesus. We would do it together.

Jesus spits on his eyes.  What? Why? Yuk!  The blind man didn’t see it coming – sorry, that slipped out but it’s true. He felt rather than saw the spit.  Maybe he heard it.  But on his eyes? Really??? In our pain, in our blindness, things happen that we cannot understand, like spit in the eye and it is easy to draw back, to pull away from Jesus.  Then I remember moments in my life as a child when my mother or grandmother would spit on their handkerchief to clean up my face after an ice cream, or playing in the dirt.  I can’t help smiling.  Only a mother, or a family member could get away with doing that.  Jesus used his own spit to clean up this man’s eyelids – to wash away the grime, to soften the lashes, to prepare him for sight.  This is an act of great love, great intimacy – only a trusted family member can come this close.  Jesus, the Son of God, who so identified with our pain, who so loved us uses his own body fluid, his blood, to wash us clean from the effects and impacts of sin, hurt, pain, brokenness and grief.  Sometimes healing comes slowly and softly if we allow Jesus to come close.

When the man was ready, Jesus placed his hands on his eyes and prayed.  Jesus prays for us.  Jesus was praying for me in my pain.  Jesus was sitting with me and we cried together.  Slowly the blind man’s sight was restored.  Not all at once, slowly.  He began to make out form and shape again. As Jesus prayed, as he stayed in the process, the distorted, confused images cleared, the way ahead became obvious and sight restored. Direction, hope, purpose returned. He could move on.

I sat on the beach a long time with this passage, sitting with Jesus and absorbing his love.  Healing comes slowly but it comes.  This slow roundabout route is also a way to a deeper relationship with Jesus, a route that enables me to sit with others in pain and to assure them healing comes.

The pieces will slowly be put back together, hope, vision, purpose will return.  I lean into Jesus' whispered promise and take his hand.

 


1. Lectio 365 devotional

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