I went to the store the other day. We chose one with the little electric scooters so that I could give Micah and Jojo rides and enjoy their closeness. But I noticed something peculiar. The vast majority of people in the store seemed to avoid eye contact with me. Maybe I made them uncomfortable. But I know they saw me. Many were the times that a fellow shopper quickly picked up their pace to cut me off. At the entrance to the store, I was surprised that I had to be the one to say, “Please, after you,” to about 5 irritated people who glared at me as though I was some annoying obstacle that was keeping them from their all-important shopping missions. Even with my children on board, there were a few times that I had to come to an abrupt stop or swerve to avoid being rammed by someone’s shopping cart. If shopping were a race, I was clearly disadvantaged.
But it was very different at the rehab center. There, I was eye-level with many of the other patients. My wife and I were able to engage in spiritual discussions with the nurses, staff, and other patients, of which almost all seemed more than happy to pray with me. Remember Tyrone? My wife and I had finished our lunch and noticed him sobbing, arguing with a nurse over his medication. If he had stood up, he would have easily cleared 6 feet. But now, he was confined to a wheelchair, his left thigh amputated above the knee, ending in an abrupt nub. Distraught, he was refusing his medication. My wife wheeled me up to him and I asked him a very simple question, “Would you like to pray?” He readily agreed and we had a very special moment of fellowship.
He wasn’t the only one. There were quite a few others. What was the difference? My disadvantage in the marketplace was an advantage at the rehab center. There, I didn’t have to say, “I feel your pain,” because we were all in wheelchairs. We had all gone through a life changing traumatic incident. I tend to think that if I had bounded in there, able-bodied, with a nice tailored Italian suit, and a big Bible in my hand, that I wouldn’t have been able to strike the immediate rapport that I did. I didn’t have to convince them that I could empathize with their pain, since pain was our commonality. I was seen, as one writer put it, as a “wounded healer.” My “street cred,” was obvious, and they were more than open to what I had to say.
How about you? Do you have a secret scar, a deep disappointment that you want to keep hidden from society? Let me encourage you, your pain might be the key to unlocking a person’s heart to God. Your wound may be the very thing that will allow you to speak words of hope and healing to another going through the same thing you did. I believe it was Oswald Chambers who said that we often want to be trophies on God’s mantle piece, shiny and perfect examples of God’s material blessings. Gleaming and radiant, we want to shout to others, “Look at me! Look at how God blessed me!” but this really attracts no one to Christ. For the person suffering some deep pain, alone and ashamed, maybe what they will respond to is another wounded traveler who will come alongside them and share with them words of hope. Maybe they need you to be their wounded healer. After all, isn’t Jesus the best example of one?
“He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)
Tim