Sometimes I welcome communion with the Father, especially when my heart is full from a joyful moment. When there has been a soft word, or a kind gesture, a smile or touch that lingered long after the meeting, my initial response is to offer thanksgiving to the Giver of every good and perfect gift. But my times of communion with the Lord are not just meant to be expressed when there is happy. Communion means I choose to say no to the part of me that wants to dwell on the one who gave the bitter words, or the one who fosters the unforgiving heart. I must choose to offer my open hands to the One who can heal the hurt that's been delivered. I must choose communion.
I lift my festering wound that throbs and bleeds; a hand that wants to nurse and cover, but chooses instead to offer it to the Creator Who will dig into the hurt and pull out the root that infects. He lovingly closes the hole with His stitching hand, and I weep, because the pain is still there. But as the weeks pass, I am left with only a scar.
Blood-seeping wound now gone.
Hand touches the scar, and what remains is only a memory.
I would rather have scar than bloody wound, so I must always give up the nursing hand to the Healing One.
Hands open, lifted high.
Great Physician, I yield them.
Turn my wound into a scar; my sorrow into sweet communion.
