She Who Heals

In a Taize service, I sit before cross & candle, meditating. God stands before me. She reaches into me and starts pulling on a large tumor of pain & hurt. The tumor has tentacles that reach deep, twining around my essential parts, its stringy fingers reaching even into my brain.

She gives a hard tug. It hurts like crazy when She does that, making my eyes water. But it is too twisted and tangled in my essence to give way.

“I just wanted you to see how deeply embedded your pain is,” she says. “There is no way you can get it out yourself.” I nod agreement, my eyes still stinging.

Then she taps her fingers together. The stringy, globby mess turns to dust & blows away.

“But I can take care of it all,” she notes. She taps her fingers again, and the tumor returns.

“I just wanted you to see how easily I can heal. When you’re ready, ask,” she says.

A bell rings. Meditation time is over. The vision fades. The reading begins. It says,

“The pain & the wounds go too deep for us to heal alone. Only God, only a far Greater Power can penetrate such depth of pain, & gently, gently soothe & kiss us into wholeness. It is too much for us, all of it has to be given over entirely to God. All of it.”

Why do I hold so doggedly to my sorrows? Uncurl your fingers, let loose the pain, be healed.

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