Healing from the Inside Out

Two years ago, my nephew Brent, was clearing a field on the wildlife preserve that employed him. A small tree fell the wrong way, entered the cab of the tractor and a small limb jabbed into his thigh. Being the good old boy he is, he yanked it out and went on to work. Three weeks later the area was swollen, red, and hot to the touch with great red streaks climbing outward from the center.

With some encouragement from the women in his life, wife, mom, grandmother, and aunt; he went to the doctor and began a regimen of antibiotics. After taking several weeks of various medications it became obvious the wound was not going to heal without some surgery. The surgeon went in and opened the wound and found masses of dead tissue and infection that he removed. Bandaged but left open to heal from the inside out, the wound kept Brent home and in bed. Yet, once again the wound closed on the outside before healing could occur on the inside.

Once again surgery had to occur, but this time a long period of wound care accompanied it. Every day, for two weeks, and then every other day for several more weeks, Brent went in to the wound care center for a painful procedure. First he was given a dose of morphine, the bandage was removed, a topical anesthesia was applied, the top of the wound was bathed in saline and an instrument like a water pick was used to tear the edges of the top of the wound back open. A prod was used to reach deep into the layers of flesh (Brent is a large man with strong thighs so we are talking deep.) to explore the very depth of the wound. Only the furthest tissue in was allowed to close up.

The process was so painful that tears flowed even with the morphine and topical anesthesia. As the nurses came to know Brent, they put the water pick into his hand and let him gauge the slowness or quickness of the procedure. Some days he was there 3 hours taking all the pain he could each minute of the procedure. It took about 3 months of painful prodding and reopening of the wound to finally obtain a clean bill of health.

Those 3 months of Brent's healing are much like the 20 years of my emotional healing. I tried many options each time to find the wound healed outwardly, but left much seething underneath. I attended conferences on inner healing, I read books, I received tons of prayer, I sought God and learned to hear his Spirit's leading. Each and every opportunity brought a measure of healing and the grace to continue the journey, but infection in my life remained hidden beneath the healed places. Finally, with the help of a decrease in hormonal balance and the advent of menopause, everything came exploding to the surface and external healing was no longer an option. It was time to go deep and get the puss from the bottom.

The degree of emotional pain I experienced during those first 3 years of work with Cheryl was indescribable. I don't know how I made it through it. Cheryl, my therapist, often called it courage, but to me it was the only choice I had. I could no longer continue with the deep necrosis inside. I became as a child as I emotionally regressed. I lost all control of my emotions; anxiety and shame consumed me. I was almost completely dependent on my therapist. And, then slowly and methodically, I rebuilt who I was from the bottom up.

Like the nurses who worked with Brent, Cheryl and now John, respected my own time table and the work happening inside of me. They often handed me the tools and stood beside me as I cleaned the wounds. They graciously allowed me the time it took and let me breathe and cry between the painful excursions into the unhealed flesh.

My healing will never be the same as anyone else's. I cannot measure someone else's journey by my own. No one else can measure mine by theirs. When I first entered Cheryl's office in August of 2000, I mentally gave myself a year and half or at the most 2 to finish. After a year, I realized I was still tearing dead stuff out and was nowhere near the bottom. After 2 years I began to panic because of my personally set time limit. When year 3 came, a little shame remained for the time this was taking, but I gladly signed up for my master's degree program in order to continue to see Cheryl. I had learned to trust myself and my gut. By the end of year 5, I was ready to let go of Cheryl and move on - or to at least try.

After a brief respite, I found a new therapist, and with John have tied up loose ends here and there. I have also recently faced the pastoral sexual abuse of my childhood with a new knowledge base and a healthier sense of self.

This time, I plan to stay put until God finishes. Wherever you are in your time of healing from whatever it is you are healing, may you find the grace to be the clay on the wheel and trust the potter's hands.