“And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed. And he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.’” Luke 8:47-48

I used to think that healing was this beautiful magic. It fixed things in an instant.

I used to want to write about beautiful things. Things I could make sense of. But the more I write, the more I live, I realize beauty is not what I thought it was. With every morning I slide out of bed in a fog, I am plagued and led by all the things I want to say. Hard things. About days that drag, skin that is not perfect, hands that can’t decide when to pick up and when to let go.

Healing, my friend, is not pretty. It is ugly. It’s broken shards shoved back together wrong the first time. And the next. And on. Then you discover where one piece fits.

Just like every story, there are good parts and bad parts. There’s screaming in your car parts. And you don’t know where it came from because it does not sound like you. There’s crying in the floor of the shower parts. It’s not knowing if you’ll ever be the same. It’s not really remembering what the same is. It’s wanting to go back. It is feeling forgotten and left behind by anything good.

But dispersed throughout, there are commas of hope. God breathes His goodness into these moments when you want to press pause. It’s eating too much spaghetti Bolognese with your mom on a Tuesday night. You find new places with her just because. It’s talking to a friend miles away who you miss. You talk about being vulnerable and you wonder how someone you know is so worthy can feel so not enough too. It’s sunny and 70 and a breeze that’s actually cool for once. It’s having to take a long night drive because some eyes are just too brown and make you think too much. It’s your bible falling open to a psalm that cries out what you feel. It’s strands of emails which cannot be broken, thousands of words exchanged with someone who knows you. It’s a letter written neatly and intentionally by someone who thought about you. On purpose.

This is healing. Not a cute little word that people use to explain what’s happening. It is when light reaches down and meets darkness to smite its boastful reign. The false is made known. No, this is not the best version of me. This isn’t even the whole of me. I am pieces of me. The healing is slow and sweet and sad. Like violins. It’s the music of it that makes sense.

So listen to this now: It is not too late. There is room for you to begin here. Right here. Where it hurts. Where it’s dark. Where you’ve let the word hope slip from your vocabulary.

You and I need restoration.

We need revival.

We need to be renewed.

Something fresh. Some beautiful, unexpected, light-filled presence. May it be visible. May it be our new oxygen. May we touch his cloak daily and live out the healing.

Suzannah // @suz_joy

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