On Healing

Light and Dark

Perhaps healing is the opposite of brokenness—or breaking, really.

Breaking apart—putting the pieces back together is healing, isn’t it?

Gluing the pieces back into its whole state.  Or the perceived whole state, anyway.

I think we get lost in our understanding of healing when we force our idea of the outcome onto the process.

Take a serious illness, for example.  We only see healing as a complete restoration of health into life.  Death, for us, offers no glimmer of hope for healing.  As though death were the opposite of healing, in fact.

So, to our mind, our complete feeling of separateness from God is our idea of wholeness.  Of health.

Anything having to do with a substantial change in our overall being—anything that might “disable” us from being just what we see on the TV screen—well-dressed, happy, fully functional—is wrong and unhealthy.  If something disturbs our core sense of identity, then we have not healed.

And certainly anything that might bring us closer to God—physically, mentally, or emotionally—just proves that something is very, very wrong with us.

We don’t appreciate the infinite variety there is in how we can express ourselves.  Or how dramatic a change there can be to our lives that brings us to a new path to having a more intimate relationship with God.

We don’t want to acknowledge how losing our sight might alter our way of seeing the world around us.  We just insist on perceiving ourselves as broken.  And something in need of a fix.

Wholeness is only, these days, a reflection of a picture in a magazine.

And yet the face of God is infinite.

We lock ourselves into a very small box, and don’t even want to lift up the lid of our box, from time-to-time, to see what else God has to offer us.

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