Wounds



We [I] can maintain composure, we [I] can keep going. But do we [I] ever heal from being ripped apart, cast aside and trampled? Do the wounds which penetrate deep into the chasm of our [my] heart and psyche ever really mend from a cold intrusive blow from the very ones who were once so dear in our [my] life? Do words of verbal floggings allow us [me] to go on without bearing scars upon our [my] back? How can we [I] be the same? If in ourselves [myself] were the entirety of the equation, we [I] would never trust, love, share, celebrate, rejoice or hope in such relationships again. If it were just in us [me], all that would remain from such a barrage would be the shell of a person crushed by bitterness and stricken by grief. If love were dependent on our [my] own manufacturing, such an experience would no doubt leave a deficit too great to fill and overcome. We [I] would be hopelessly, emotionally bankrupt for life. The hurt though substantial, the precipice deep and arduous, and the pain seemingly intolerable at times is real, but the mountain of love, hope, peace, joy, tranquility and forgiveness from that stone which was cut without human hands destroys all which could have engulfed our [my] universe. It is blown away by an east wind, and a place is found for it no more. The saying is then confirmed, “love covers over a plethora of wrongs”. It is only by the Father’s continual waterfall of love by which we [I] can say, “our [my] cup is overflowing”, and ask, “would you care for a drink of living water, it heals bitter wounds”?