Right Where I Am Wounded

Right where I am wounded,

that’s where the strike was aimed.

Yes, it’s an old wound, one of my oldest, in fact. But wounds received in childhood sometimes reopen and bleed all over the present day, don’t they? No matter how scarred, no matter how deep we think they have been buried, they are still liable to resurfacing at inconvenient times

And this moment was most inconvenient.

I was surrounded. Surrounded by God’s women. Like Conestoga wagons on a long journey to an untamed land, we’d gathered to circle up, to share provisions, to defend against common dangers, to swap stories.

And now, here I was bleeding in their midst. Not the original plan.

 

The original plan was for me to bring them a word of testimony, a word about the work and the movement and the miracle of God in my life. I’d prepared for it, prayed over it, partook of God’s grace for it, received His anointing on my story, and sat waiting to be called to the front.

That’s not what happened.

The time came when it would have been my turn to speak, my turn to face the gathering and deliver what I’d prepared. I took deep breaths to quiet my nerves, a sip of water, a prayer. But, then,

the moment passed.

 

The woman leading moved on, calling us to a time of extended prayer, calling us to minister to one another, calling us to our knees, and these are God’s women so I knew, I knew then that the praying would go on into the night, and on, and on and God would move in our midst and I wanted that but all at once, I wasn’t delivering a message from God,

I was forgotten.

Forgotten. Set aside. Unchosen. Unwanted. Sidelined. Unused. Forgotten. Forgettable. As the women moved around me toward those with hands upraised for prayer, I froze in my place, bleeding from this old, old wound, my flesh crying out questions I knew I would never speak aloud because if I did, I would shatter into a million pieces.

 

But I have walked with Jesus for a long time now, so I knew the only way to stop the bleeding was to knock on heaven’s door and ask my questions there. So, frozen still, eyes closed, staying small so as not to be noticed, prayers swirling round me as hands were laid on weeping ones, I bled in front of Jesus, offered Him, opened to Him, my wounded soul.

“You see me, right? You know what I’d expected. You know what had been planned. You see me here, forgotten, yes? You see the open wound. I know this woman, this leader. You speak and she listens, so I know You’re behind this forgetting but how could you? How could you do this here, now, in this place, at this time? Wound me again!? I am the forgotten child, the one set aside, the one waiting and watching for someone to come but no one does. What cruel plan do you have for this moment that makes any sense at all, Jesus?”

“My plan? My plan is to heal that old wound.”

“This doesn’t feel like healing.”

“And you know so much? Have you been able to heal yourself with all the stuffing, the hiding, the avoiding? You can do that again. Your choice. Stick your fingers in your ears and refuse to face this pain with me beside you but that’s not what I recommend. Do you want to be healed, daughter of mine? Do you want to be released from being the forgotten child?”

He watched as I battled with my lesser spirit. Yes, I want to be healed but really I wanted to speak. Really I wanted things to go as planned. Really I didn’t want to be raw and open in that place, at that moment. But, healing – yes, if this is a way to be healed from this old wound, then yes, Jesus, bring it on.

So quietly, voices swirling around me as prayers were offered, the air heavy with them like incense, I heard His voice. “You are not forgotten. I see you. I know right where you are. That woman is not in charge of this night and neither are you. I am. You could have spoken but I have a better plan. My plan is to speak to you and heal you now. I don’t forget my children and are you not mine? Release what you had planned, what you expected, and receive the knowledge that you are NOT forgotten, you are NEVER out of my sight. I will never leave you nor forsake you. Even if your father and mother forsake you, I will take you in.” Will you trust me with the plan for this weekend? Will you acknowledge me, as leader of this time, and trust yourself over to me?”

“Yes, Lord. I will trust you in this moment. I receive your healing.”

Just then, a beautiful, grace-filled woman approached and though my hands remained unraised she asked, “Lori, would you like me to pray for you?” “Yes.” “And what shall I pray?” “Pray for release.”

On Sunday morning, the leader remembered me. Apologies, of course, but they weren’t necessary. Forgetting was not her doing, but God’s.

And the songs we sang as a prelude to my talk at it’s appointed time were filled with lines from my testimony as if someone had planned the music to prepare the women for my words. I knew that Someone had. When I spoke, I heard Jesus laughing. His laughter rang through the room and through my soul, unhindered by the place there used to be a scar named Forgotten.

The Lord remembers His children.

Do you want to be healed? Sometimes that moment of healing feels like you are bleeding out but if you trust Him, allow Him to work His plan, you, too, can stand free and hear His laughter celebrate your wholeness.

Healing may mean you have to stand in the moment of pain and stare down that old wound but He stands with you and takes the full force of the pain on Himself.

Choose healing, loved ones.