Some of us commit ourselves to healing, without fully comprehending the wound. I assume the ache exists in one place and confidently begin addressing it. No breaths taken. No questions posed. How could I know I had only caught an echo? Pain reverberates off the walls of wounded souls and wounded bodies. We have to hunt the root.

I sat at the head of the table,
Next to the grand mirror,
In front of the grand window,
The Gothic basilica towering over the square,
Peace there, stirring in here.

I tried to stay composed,
But I trembled as I spoke,
“He wasn’t willing to fight for me.”
The one who was meant to always be steady.

Mother and aunt each held one of my hands,
Their eyes filling with tears as mine spilled over.
I didn’t realize how deeply the pain still ran.

“He chose his pride” instead of choosing his girl.
He couldn’t admit he’s not the God of his world.

Familiar with the mind, acquainted with the heart,
But the soul — he wasn’t willing to exhort.
Instead of returning, he stays in his chains,
An effort to protect himself perhaps from the pain.

“I wasn’t enough” for a sacrificial love,
At least not for him...

As I contemplate leaving his country,
My heart cramps with defeat.
The chance of a miraculous humbling,
Feels slimmer with each passing week.

“He will not admit his error.”
He would rather run and pretend not to care.

But instead, he tightens his grip:
Don’t tell me how to live.
Don’t tell me how to act.
I’ll do what I think is right, and that’s that.

Even so, even after he’s gone,
I will hold him with tenderness,
Forgiven already near the dock with the swans,
I see the wounds he tries to repress.

Ah, I desire this joy for him though!
A peace I’ve found to harbor in my shores,
To share the beauty of surrender so,
We might build on Truth and truly grow.

To find the root — it isn’t an easy endeavor. Often the clues are buried under an astounding amount of ‘protection.’ Our wounds are individual and the mind is very clever. Sometimes the will to ‘do the work’ is not enough. I’ve had this enthusiasm my entire life — to take responsibility for my imperfections and become ‘better’ — but nothing really started to lift until I began asking for grace. The prerequisite? Admitting I can’t heal myself on my own.

So, prayer was the first step — turning to someone who doesn’t neglect the spirit, but actually knows your spirit specifically, intimately. You know I like poetry; you know I prefer to delicately veil the meaning of my words — but I won’t be vague today:

There is only one person who can heal us fully — mind, body, and soul — and that’s God. He is called the Divine Physician. How perfect is that? (Mark 2:17)

To end, I would like to leave you with part of a conversation. It sparked a lot of ponders for me this month as I continue to try and understand my father-wounds and their connections to my newborn faith. The woman interviewed explains her experience honestly and I really relate to it: