Wednesday, June 6, 2012

It's about the operating room again....

It feels like I have been laying on the table for weeks. First playing the waiting game. Waiting for the Great Physician to enter the room. To fill it with His peace. To lay His hand upon me to reassure me that He was there and that I would be okay. He did. He showed up. And just as always, in His presence there was overwhelming comfort. His presence changed my focus. I was ready. He was there and I was on the table. On your mark, get set, Go. Right? The quicker He begins, the quicker I am off the table?


No movement. Just more waiting. And waiting. And more waiting.
We've been waiting for what feels like forever (really only a matter of weeks, but in my world: FOREVER) . . . I guess I've been waiting. He's in charge, and He knows the game plan, eh? For me however, it's been an uncomfortable waiting game.

Alas . . . we have movement.

After all the waiting, I am more ready than I am scared. Was that the plan?

Something catches me eye. When I entered the room and examined it before, I can't say it caught my attention, but today, I see it.

I see me on the table. Not like a mental picture of what that would look like, but literally a mirror image of me lying on the table. When did that show up? Perfectly placed above me, where I can see all that is about to happen. One large mirror.

Whoa. Wait a minute. Did I mention before I am squeamish? That I would prefer You to do what You need to do, without me having to be an eye witness?

Funny how that sounds coming out.

Shouldn't I want to see firsthand all that He is doing, even if that does mean watching Him pull out and open stuff I'd rather not relive?

As I have this conversation in my head, I see His tender smile and He begins the much needed work.

A sigh of relief. A moment of remembering--there is no judgment. He knows what's there. I know what's there. There are no surprises.

As I watch Him do His thing . . . my mind drifts to that little window in the door. I know who's face is there. I wonder how much can be seen. Is the view obstructed by His shoulder? Is the mirror that bears all visible?

I glance back at the mirror.

As he pulls out garbage and as He makes His way to the deep wounds, my eyes lock on His.

Despite it all.

Despite all the poor decisions that have lead to those deep cuts. All of the quick fixes or fast escapes that have lead to the excess garbage; despite it all . . .  I'm here now.

I keep forgetting that.

He can't start writing the next chapter until I stop reading the last one.
He can't heal my wounds, if I keep taking off the bandages to see how I am doing.
He can't move me forward, if my feet are planted because of fear and if I am unwilling to be vulnerable and available.

That dreaded mirror, now doesn't seem so bad. I understand it. Not only do I get the joy of witnessing the power of His hands, but I am reminded of my need for Him. I get to see, that apart from Him junk and trash takes over my life. It's in that mirror that I see my need---the need to stay close, to abide in, to walk with Him, to let Him fill me.

He smiles.

I'm at peace.

I am not naive enough to believe that there won't be more earth shaking troubles. That I am not immune to heart break or hurt. That difficult times and questions of life won't arise.

He is teaching me that in the risks of life, no matter what, He will be there good or bad. He's got a hold of me and won't let go. He is faithful.

I glance back to the window.


It's safe to do this part alone. Get all done up inside, put back together and then invite them in. However, I know that's not what He is asking of me.

He's left an empty chair by the operating table.

People to share life with are one of His biggest blessings. I know this. And as I catch His eyes again, He smiles in agreement.

I look back to the window, but this time I motion . . . .

. . . Please, come in.

I don't know if what will be seen in that room will leave that chair occupied or not.


I leave that on the table too.

I refocus on the Mirror. On to what He is doing. On to Him . . . My leader. My Healer. My Savior.

I reach for the hand in that chair and repeat to myself . . .


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