We rarely look at a wound as a good thing that will help us. Yet St. Augustine of Hippo said, “In my deepest wound I saw your glory and it astounded me.” Astounded him, as in shocked or surprised him.
Like Augustine, I too find it astounding to think that, in my deepest wounds, I would see God’s glory. To witness this seems contradictory to the deep, dark wound or trial we may be experiencing. We expect to see his glory in creation, in a remarkable move of the Spirit, or in answered prayer. But in my deepest wound, in the very thing I’d rather hide, I can see him?
I know that for some, looking at things like wounds, needles, or blood will make you uncomfortable or even queasy. Thankfully, I don’t have that issue as the Lord called me to be a nurse at the age of 19. I have had multiple opportunities to see wounds, both intentional (surgical) and injurious (accidental or from prolonged pressure). In either case, it was my duty as the nurse to assess the wound for infection, measure its size and depth, and gauge the healing process as we treated the underlying issues.
As humans, we are usually quick to address our physical pain, even if no outward wound is visible. We go to multiple doctors to determine the problem so that we may heal faster. If there is an outward wound, we apply the proper medication, dressings, or even stitches to help the process. We certainly don’t ignore the problem or pretend there isn’t one.
So why are we often slow to take care of our emotional, mental, or spiritual wounds? Why do we push through the pain, shove it deep down inside, and pretend like something didn’t happen? Why are we willing to prolong healing when it is so detrimental to our well-being and walk with the Lord?
This past year was full of grieving for me, and I struggled to give myself permission to deal with the pain I was enduring. I looked at my circumstances and felt the weight of them, trying not to become overwhelmed by the constant influx of challenges. Then, after our home was robbed, I no longer felt safe. That feeling of insecurity was the tipping point.
I felt alone and forgotten by the Lord. I was sure that my prayers were going unheard and certainly unanswered. I questioned my place in ministry and was struggling with the despair of grief and anxiety. I finally came to the end of myself and told my husband I wasn’t okay—I needed counseling and time to breathe. A few weeks later we were boarding a plane to go back to the US to look for the help I so desperately needed.
During one of my first therapy sessions, my counselor encouraged me to write a lament, using Psalm 88 as a reference. She told me to honestly look at everything I’d been dealing with and to pour it out before the Lord—to question him and to tell him the way I was feeling. She gave me permission to express my feelings and be honest with the Lord, not just to smile and bear it.
There was something so freeing about telling him openly, honestly, how I was feeling and questioning everything he had allowed to happen, to tell him I felt abandoned and how I was drowning in sorrow.
It was then that the most interesting thing happened.
The Lord invited me to wrestle with him, just like Jacob does in Genesis 32. I was stunned at the invitation, and uncertain of what to do with it. After all, who am I to question the God of the universe?
Slowly, I began to look at my wound, to write down all the hurt and pain from the past year. I told him how I felt alone and unseen by him. I asked him where he was during my deepest sorrow. I asked him if he really kept his promises. Tear-stained pages filled my journal as I wrestled with how God could allow what he did and still call himself loving and good.
The beautiful part was that, in the wrestling, I experienced his presence and grace in ways I never have before. There was no shame or guilt, just the tender presence of the Lord who sees me, knows me, and comforts me in my pain. In my surrender, he finally offered what I was looking for the whole time—peace in the comfort of his sovereignty over my life.
My circumstances didn’t change, but I knew, with confidence, that I wasn’t alone. God, the One who sees, was with me. He invited me to look, to wrestle, to receive his blessing, and most importantly, to see his glory.
My final prayer of the night was this:
The reality is, I don’t need to know the answers,
nor am I meant to—
it would be too much for me.
I don’t want to be angry
and not trust your sovereignty.
I just want to trust.
I feel too weary to do anything else.
So maybe that’s the point, in all of this—
just to rest.
Have you ever written a lament? How has it helped you heal?
