Hands that Heal: Learning to Trust God

hands that heal. this is a foreign concept for me. when i first started my journey into my Christ-like life, i remember hearing stories of the power of our hands. i remember hearing how God would push his powers through us to heal those around us. i enjoyed this thought very much, but truthfully i’m not sure i ever believed it to be true. because if it was, then why hadn’t he healed me?

i’m nearly 25 years out from the first time someone used their hands to hurt me, a cycle of violence that continued throughout my life in various relationships at various stages of my life. hands, to me, were not a source of healing but rather a source of violence, power, and control.

i went through a deliverance type ministry for a few months seeking some counseling. i remember the counselor telling me that it’s obvious i had prayer warriors somewhere in my life given where i am today- i suspect he meant the fact that i’m a believer after all that’s happened to me added to the fact that i didn’t grow up in a Christian home where God was talked about in a loving way. as i mentioned before, God wasn’t talked about unless it was in the context of a debate.

i have some cousins who are firm believers, i suppose it was them. i also assume my grandmothers on both my parents sides had something to do with my salvation.

this is where i get caught up though. why is my salvation “secure” and “safe” but my life on earth isn’t? what does that say about God? how does the bad that happens in this world not highlight awful characteristics of God?

yes yes, i know the bible tells us that bad things will happen and will continue to happen until Jesus comes back. yes yes, i know we have free choice. we can choose to be good or bad. some of us choose good. some of us choose bad. we can’t blame God for that.

can we?

i go back to genesis a lot, i think it’s because it was within genesis that i struggled the most and threw my bible down on the floor declaring i’d never believe in “this crap” for as long as i lived. suppose i should have listened to my mom when she said, “never say never”. here i am, about 15 years later and i’m not only a believer, but a follower of Christ.

after the fall, God coaxes adam and eve out of hiding and attempts to engage them in an honest discussion. but out of fear, adam and eve “deny” wrong doing. they shift blame. it wasn’t adam’s fault, it was eves. it wasn’t eves fault. it was the serpents. and even the serpent- though not in genesis specifically- shifts blame to God.

in our current rape culture- a culture that perpetuates domestic and sexual violence, we love to focus on blame shifting. with questions like, “what was she wearing?” to “where was she?” to “was she drinking?” to “did she do drugs?” to “did she say no?” to “why was she out late?” to “why did she stay?” to “where were her parents?” to “how did she not know?” all accumulate into saying, victims have no one to blame but themselves. 

i’ve felt this rhetoric. it’s weighed heavy on my heart and spirit since it first happened. i did everything i could to destroy my body. from slashing holes in it to restricting food and water. i’d speak vile things over it, condemning it in everyway possible.

when people look at me, they don’t see what I see.

i see a body with no allegiance to it’s inhabitant. i see a body full of memories of sadness carved into it. i see something damaged, flawed, disgusting, and hateful.

mostly, i see a grave.

within my flesh lays the body of a little girl suffocated with violence. her innocence bled from her. for years, i kept throwing dirt on her, willing her to disappear back into the earth, like the good ol bible promises will happen to us. but she lays still, rotting inside of her coffin, waiting to be found.

now i’m here. struggling to carry my weight and hers. feeling as if every move i make is in direct opposition to the value and worth of her death. if i smile, i’ve forgotten her. if i cry, i’m mourning her. if i fight, i’m fighting for her. if i have sex, i’m abusing her. if i heal, i’m getting rid of her.

i get angry sometimes about this. the way she makes me feel about myself, about my life. and then i become ashamed for harboring anything but love, empathy and compassion for her. it’s not her fault, though she pays the price.

they {fellow believers} tell me i don’t need to pay the price; Jesus has taken it. that i just need to hand it to his “healing hands” and i’ll be healed. so what’s my hold up you ask?

i liken it to this,

my mom makes two dinner options. the first is a nice piece of chicken. the second is a steak which she’s laced with poison. she gives my brother the two options, telling him which has the poison and which does not then tells him to divvy up the dinner between me and him. my brother gives me the steak. i suffer. yes, ultimately my brother made the choice, but why’d my mom poison the steak in the first place?

people are asking me to give my hurts to someone who created the option to hurt in the first place. from a strictly psychological perspective, it kind of sounds like munchausen’s syndrome by proxy- whereby the caregiver purposely injures and/or makes someone sick so they can be rescuers or get attention. but this is God we’re talking about. which makes it all the more complicated and confusing.

i long for the day those healing hands are placed on my spirit. for Jesus to come and remove the dead little girl from within me. but i’m not sure i trust him with her. after all, he did nothing to stop her from being killed. how do i know he’ll care for her now?

ultimately, shifting blame is within our nature, from the very beginning. like the serpent, i’m holding God hostage to my rage. and here’s the thing, i’m not sure i’m ready to let go of that anger towards Him. i know the violation i experienced wasn’t my fault, yet i have to learn to forgive my own body for doing what it needed to do to survive and that seems impossible.

i know the violence i’ve experienced is caused by hurts, anger, and sin, and yet i have to learn to forgive God for letting things happen that i don’t quite understand. God has been hurt countless times by his children, this i know. i know what Jesus went through on the cross- in my own way. i know i’m not alone. but none of this changes where i am. and i think, God is okay with me taking this moment by moment.

eccelesaites 3 1:8 says,

everything that happens in life—there is a season, a right time for everything under heaven:

a time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, a time to collect the harvest; a time to kill, a time to heal, a time to tear down, a time to build up; a time to cry, a time to laugh; a time to mourn, a time to dance; a time to scatter stones, a time to pile them up; a time for a warm embrace, a time for keeping your distance; a time to search, a time to give up as lost; a time to keep, a time to throw out; a time to tear apart, a time to bind together; a time to be quiet, a time to speak up; a time to love, a time to hate; a time to go to war, a time to make peace.

 

this is just my time to mourn. i wish i had a better ending for this post. but i promised i’d be real and raw. this is where i’m at.

what do the healing hands of Jesus mean to you? how has He healed you?

1 Comment

  1. Thank you for opening your heart and sharing with such raw honesty. That is something that seems so rare today. I’m encouraged with your blog that if we had more people like you in the world we’d see society change from a rape culture to a culture of consent and compassion!

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: