My body is covered in blood. Okay,
not my entire body, but my legs. Well really, my lower left leg is drenched.
Shaving in the coffin like closet
that is our school shower, I propped my right lower limb against the corner
perpendicular to my trunk. Running the razor around the bandage on my ankle
from the last battle, I freshly nicked the flesh. Bright red streamed into the
water running off my foot. In disbelief that I had injured not a half inch from
a recovering patch, I continued up. Slip! Blood now streamed from my knee. My
mouth dropped open and water from the spigot sputtered in.
Then, I started up the back of my
leg. Wack! Blood began to flow from the outside of the same ankle. What! Livid,
I raveled up the back of my knee when Wham! The evil razor tore a sizable chunk
from where the flesh wrinkles at the back of my knee. This fresh slice shone
white with epidermis underneath the tan, and then blood began pouring from the
continent sized patch.
My leg stung. Four spots in 2
minutes I couldn’t believe it. They weren’t just annoying nicks either. I had
gaping wounds gushing the life out of me. That might be a tad dramatic, but I really
began to feel dizzy and weak. I twisted the shower nozzle to off and wrapped my self in a towel.
Staggering back to my room blotting
with paper towels I winced. The tide wouldn’t subside. I felt like crying. I
couldn’t even curl up in bed because it would forever alter the complexion of
my white quilt.
Desperate for someone to sympathize
or empathize with my pain and even greater exasperation I considered calling my
mom. No, I thought. She’s asleep by now. My roommate was
busy Skyping her family. Though I wanted to, I couldn’t very well hoist my
bleeding calf up to the computer screen and show and tell the tragedy. Next, I
considered pulling the sympathy card on my boyfriend, but he was still in
class.
So instead, I determined to
journal. Typing wouldn’t express my misery as well as physically scratching out
the vivid words, so furiously scribbled into a notebook while waiting for the
blood to clot and feeling like a corpse from a gory battlefield.
Writing in the midst of a homicide
scene, I began to question whether sleek legs were really worth it? Perhaps
there’s something to be said for floor length dresses and stockings that cover
up those wiry ankles.
At the same time, I continued to
feel wounded and damaged both in my flesh and in my heart. Just as I had
originally turned to tell someone about the miserable incident, I felt that the
hurt would be significantly diminished if another person could recognize the
tragedy and proclaim, “Yes, my dear. You have been wronged.”
But God is always there and desires
me to come to him with my hurts.
Then, returning to my musings on
stockings and long skirts, I thought of Elizabeth Bennet all alone after a
disastrous proposal from Darcy and the bad news about Jane’s separation from
Bingley. She remarks, “How much I shall have to conceal” about this news and
the proposal.
When we are alone with ourselves we
are forced to learn because no physical arms wrap around us to sympathize and
validate our pain. But God has purposes for our pain, whether they are large
lessons like learning to lean wholly on Him or smaller reasons like having
something to blog about. Christ is a high priest who empathizes with us, binds
up our broken hearts and bandages our wounded legs.
Shaving is a dangerous habit. And
in the midst of my bloody shower tragedy, I wanted community to surround me.
But we’re a part of the constant community of heaven and God’s kingdom. He is
always with us even when He might want us to grow from being alone.
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