I don’t like the word “scab” but it was the only word that made any sense. That’s what it was: a scab. A place where I had once been wounded. A place where healing was in the process of happening.
Scabs itch. They’re the natural Band-Aid that is meant to be temporary. They are ugly too, though they do beautiful work. Underneath a scab lies a wound, but a wound that is growing new skin like a butterfly in her cocoon. A scab is a good sign.
I was once so bloodied and bruised, I hardly looked like something made in God’s image. Though I was just a little girl, Satan had no mercy in his abuses. But a good doctor took me in and bandaged me up. He anointed my wounds with oil and fed me my milk with a spoon. He washed my feet and rinsed the blood from me, from my hands. He made me clean and whole.
And once I saw how compassionate He was, I wanted to be near Him always, like Fantine and Jean Valjean. Like anyone who has known a rescuer. I made a covenant, in awe that He wanted me even more. But I was not faithful. Like a man who has to repeatedly purchase his own wife from the whorehouse, I made Him chase after me. I wandered and drifted from Day One.
But He always took me back.
And He continued to heal me. But girls who spend too much time in their own minds, are bound to fall into one of the many crevices of the human soul. I sat there in the dark and thought little of that which is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent or worthy of praise. Mostly I thought about how dark it was in there. A place inside of me-still so dark.
So I picked at the scabs. One step forward, two steps back.
I remembered the children at the orphanage who used to purposely maim themselves in order to receive a bandage from us. They loved the bandages with the cute cartoons on them, but mostly they loved the attention. The two seconds of having their hand held, the adhesive bandage being pressed around their finger. One scratch would be opened time and again in order to get the chance to go upstairs and receive a Band-Aid from a blanc.
At the time, I found this annoying, disturbing and unreasonable. Now I understand. And I have compassion on the scab-pickers. Because that’s just what I do. Sit inside my head and pick at old scabs while the doctor is watching me with eyes full of compassion, saying, “I’ve healed that already! We were going toward full recovery! Why dwell on the past when I’ve given you such a future?”
Did I mention that He always takes me back?
“You may be sighing and groaning because of inbred sin, and mourning over your darkness; yet the LORD sees “light” in your heart, for He has put it there, and all the cloudiness and gloom of your soul cannot conceal your light from His gracious eye.” -Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening