I’m not comfortable with pain.
Hurts of any kind are a reality we experience from the time we’re born. Unavoidable and inevitable.
Nobody does pain quite as genuinely as children. They experience personal injury, and there are two responses. Bounce back and continue playing. Or wail and weep and demand help.
Until they see blood. Then all bets are off and someone better step in and fix it.
While in Miami, I took two-year-old Brooklyn on a walk to the park to give her a chance to get out of the house.
The first thing little B wanted to do was swing. The little ones by herself and the big one with me. We moved on to slides and climbing things.
When she was done with the slide, she found a ramp to run up and down. The first several times were a plethora of squeals, giggles and grins. “I run so fast, Nana!”
The way she went down, she could have lost a lot more skin than she did. When I checked, it was a tiny scrape. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I helped her up and suggested we run down the ramp together.
Great idea until she saw her knee.
And the tiny drop of blood.
“Oh, no! Nana, I’ve got a booboo.”
Conciliatory Nana thought to diffuse the situation by not focusing too much on the scrape.
She wasn’t having any of it.
She sat in her stroller for the ride back, her wounded leg stretched out in front, peering at her booboo.
Think fast, Nana.
The ducks saved the day.
“Look at all those ducks, Brooklyn. What do you suppose they’re doing?” We walked toward the feathered creatures, who were quite content to ignore us. We noticed how they were different, guessed which were mama ducks and which were papas. And saw a mama sitting on a nest.
We talked about ducks all the way home. However, the first thing she did when we got back was show her mom and dad her booboo.
Distraction only works so long.
I don’t deal well with pain. I can put a smile on discomfort and hurt and pretend all is well. It’s easier to be distracted than deal with pain, especially of the heart.
Pain is more persistent than I am. It demands attention. It nags me if I don’t address it.
As an adult, I’m not looking for a bandage for my heart. I need help to process what hurts.
Jesus understands our pain. He’s experienced it at length for us.
And He’s promised to walk through ours with us if we let Him.
Healing of any wounds takes time. Knowing I don’t sit in grief and pain alone gives greater comfort than dealing with it by myself.
Letting Jesus bear the burden of my sorrow and hurt is better than a band-aid.
His love is the comfort I need when I can’t comfort myself.