You Are NOT Your Wounds

I was 16 and thought myself invincible.

I wasn’t the greatest quarter miler in the history of the world, or for that matter the history of Summerlin Institute in the little hamlet of Bartow, Florida. However, my self-esteem didn’t suffer, and though I barely rounded the quarter mile in just under 60 seconds, and never managed to come in first, (or second, or third for that matter) I exalted in the joy of competition.

For whatever reason, don’t ask me why, I ran barefoot, and for whatever reason, don’t ask me why, my track coach didn’t prevent me from doing so. And it’s not much of a stretch to act as your own prophet here, and realize that in fairly short order, and as the result of my foolishness, I sustained a significant injury.

For you see on one memorable day, somewhere along the final stretch of the quarter mile on my own home turf, I injured the heel of my right foot. Our family doctor, Dr. Coury, diagnosed my malady as a stone bruise, and subsequently, he was forced to excise the damaged tissue. (I hobbled around on crutches for a while).

And strangely enough, and for whatever reason, throughout the course of my lifetime I have experienced multiple miscellaneous maladies; most involving cuts and wounds.

An burn to my left calf while cleaning an acid tank at a local phosphate mine, a gaping wound on my right calf, the result of running through the back glass door of my childhood home, a significant cut to my left index finger sustained when attempting to open a coke bottle with a butcher knife, a stab wound to my right bicep which occurred when I brushed up against a door hook in my UPS truck, a mashed left little finger, the result of slamming my pinkie when exiting my dad’s Camaro, several noticeable scars on my right leg, the after effects of surgery for a melanoma, numerous stitches to my right ankle resulting from surgery for a broken ankle, and a couple of defects on my back; a lingering reminder of a surgeon’s efforts to remove benign cysts. And the list goes on.

I love the novel and movie, “Jane Eyre.” In one particular scene in the account, Jane, a governess, challenges her employer; after he is severely burned in a house fire.

“Mr. Rochester, your wounds are sad to behold, but you are NOT your wounds.”

As a pastoral counselor I have had the privilege of intervening in the lives of thousands of couples, adults and young people. And countless among them were precious men, women and children who have been wounded; not so much physically, (although this has sometimes been a factor) but more often, emotionally.

Charlotte Bronte’s character, Jane, (who is loosely modeled after her own life) had discovered one of the most important secrets of the ages; that we are NOT our wounds. Our physical and emotional wounds may be ugly and raw, and even grizzly to behold, but

… they need NOT characterize us.

Granted, easier said than done, and of course it is easier to give into the lingering impact of trauma, trial and trouble than to resist its effects. And it goes without saying that we who have borne the battle called life may need a little TLC in the form of a caring friend, or a professional caregiver.

But I think we give into the lies of our natural enemy, and cooperate with our own faulty mindsets when we are content to allow our wounds to characterize us. I think we have been called to resist the sort of defeat, desperation and doubt which too easily overwhelms us, and bows us to despair.

Strangely enough, sometimes that fifty year old stone bruise of mine opens up again, and an unsightly crack appears in the tissue surrounding it. And so I think Mr. Rochester and I have something in common. And would you mind if I include you in our not so exclusive group?

While our wounds may be sad to behold,

… we are NOT our wounds.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 4