I’m smiling. It’s a little forced, but I’m smiling.
I’ve been in the prayer room for quite a few hours this week, and though I know I’m in good hands, I still feel... a little down.
I could say I’m worried about money, or the challenges of work and family or overwhelming, or any number of things are on my mind, but this mood of mine is out of character.
I’m one of those irritating, early rising, whistling and singing at daybreak types who seems to be cheerful when others are down. I still seem that way, but between you, me, and the hundreds of others who peek into this blog regularly, I’m faking it.
In a prayer meeting the other day a friend of mine spoke about the wounds so many of us carry. How life has “nailed” us and we all carry these terrible wounds.
I have my own hurts. So does my wife. There are many internet friends who visit here, aching and stumbling with wounds fresh and wounds old.
I’m thinking about our Lord.
About His wounds.
He suffered terrible wounds. But, I think, the wounds that hurt Him the most, are the ones we continue to inflict on Him, the rejection, the indifference. Or perhaps it’s the wounds we bear which hurt Him. He’s that sort of guy.
I think that if we could just look up from our own suffering for a moment, for a clear moment, and see the hand He stretches out to us, if we would look at that hand that bears a wound passing clear through, we would see something important.
We would see that our wounds are His wounds. That He is holding out His hands to pluck the nails from our own hands, take our suffering away. That His wounds are great enough, eternal enough, to replace all the ones we carry.
In the prayer room this morning I was looking at the painting I did last Christmas. A joyful, laughing infant carrying terrible wounds. Infant Messiah, Infinite Messiah.
I am still in a bit of a funk. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I need to slow down, make peace with myself.
But gazing at that picture, that feeble echo of a truth the Lord shared with me, I know that I’ll be just fine soon enough.