The Gentle Road to Healing

“A bruised reed he will not break” (Isaiah 42:3). 

Our Norwegian Forest cat Mystique, who has long impossibly soft, black fur and big, yellow eyes, is a little princess. She loves cuddles, belly rubs, getting brushed, and falling asleep on my lap every evening (also picking fights with our other cat Heathcliff whenever he gets the attention she craves). She’s so at home in her life with my husband and me that it’s sometimes easy to forget what she was like when I first met her years ago as an underweight, malnourished street cat with tangled fur. She was too skittish to be touched, just brave enough to beg for food that she’d eat while keeping a cautious eye out for any threat coming too close. 

Gradually, she started letting down her guard around me. I still remember how exciting it was when she first let me pet her. Then one day she let me pick her up, and the rest is history. 

I sometimes think about our sweet Mystique’s transformation when I think about healing—what it can look like, whether it’s even possible. Most of us carry wounds, some that have been with us for a long time. Maybe it feels like they’ve been with us forever. It can feel like the hurt will never go away. When we look back at our lives, we might not see the linear story of healing and growth we’d like to see, but instead the same old struggles repeating themselves over and over. 

But still, healing comes. Sometimes it comes in fits and starts, and sometimes we go backwards before we go forward. But healing still finds a way to work its way in, sometimes happening so gradually we don’t even realize it’s happening. 

One of my favorite Scripture verses for the way it captures God’s character is Isaiah 42:3—“a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.” Matthew quotes this passage to describe Jesus’ calling (Matthew 12:20). Isaiah 42 describes the true servant of God, not as someone power-hungry or violent, but someone unassuming and quiet (v. 2), gentle and self-giving. With an unwavering passion for bringing God’s justice and wholeness to the world, God’s servant is steady and tireless. He does not “falter or be discouraged” (v. 3).

Christ never gives up on bringing healing. Those bruised and discarded by the world, fragile and bent, whose hope is only a smoldering flame, He does not give up on, does not break or snuff out. Instead, He sees someone precious, created and loved by God, worth all it takes to heal and restore.   

That’s part of what keeps me believing in God, even with all that can pull me towards despair. When it would be easier to give up, something keeps drawing us toward hope, towards healing, toward surviving against all the odds. Frederick Buechner puts it this way, “And what does it tell us—our surviving? It tells us that weak as we are, a strength beyond our strength has pulled us through at least this far, at least to this day. Foolish as we are, a wisdom beyond our wisdom has flickered up just often enough to light us if not to the right path through the forest, at least to a path that leads forward. . . . Faint of heart as we are, a love beyond our power to love has kept our hearts alive.” ¹

In  a way, Mystique is more precious to us because of all she’s been through. It makes every cuddle, every purr, every loving look from her, that much more special and moving. I think God feels that same way when he sees His children healing. He celebrates every step forward, every time we let down our guard enough to believe in and love Him. He loves to see us whole and He’s not in a hurry, not too rushed to give up on the journey it takes to get us there. 

Some healing won’t be complete in this lifetime. Some of us have further to go than others. Some wounds run deep, and some scars will remain. Even the scars from Jesus’ wounds remain (John 20:27, Revelation 5:6). But that doesn’t mean healing and restored hope doesn’t come, as God’s gentle grace works its way into our hearts. God has all the time in the world to heal our hearts and to show us how to trust again.

–Written by Monica La Rose. Used by permission from the author.

 ¹ Buechner, Frederick. A Room Called Remember. (New York: Harper Collins, 1984), 8.