WOUNDED
It is February in Nebraska, the dead of winter.
Every February I participate in a three day silent retreat at The Cloisters on the Platte. This is a time I have come to welcome, a time to be tucked away in silence, with God.
Because the retreat is run by Jesuits, it is Catholic in nature but open to all. As someone who swims in Protestant streams, I’m always reminded of our different views of the cross. We Protestants feature an empty cross, our focus is often on the risen Christ. But enter into a Catholic cathedral, church or monastery and you will find Jesus still on the cross. The crucifix highlights the suffering and death of Christ. Oftentimes his wounds are present- the wound in his side, blood dripping down from his crown of thorns. Hands and feet punctured through.
Each year as I enter into my silent retreat I am confronted with the wounded Christ and the suffering and pain he went through on my behalf. It is good for me to contemplate Christ’s wounds. It is good for me to consider my own wounds while sitting in the shadow of Christ hanging on the cross.
I still carry in my soul, injuries from childhood; wounds that seemingly should be healed by now but like to reopen with a sting from time to time. An offering of this retreat is an opportunity to meet with a spiritual director. I went into this short session with the spiritual director cupping my hands around this old wound and holding it out to her.
Why do I still struggle so greatly with this mother wound? Why can most of my relational struggles or emotional triggers or the way I get tripped up in ordinary life be traced like a labyrinth back to this central relationship?
She didn’t have an answer for me but she asked a great question (as spiritual directors are prone to do).
What have been the fruits of your wounds?
Even as I type this tears spring to my eyes as my heart softens and something in my soul opens. Because there has been fruit, much fruit. I was compelled toward my Heavenly Father because my earthly parents were not available to me. I parent, not perfectly, but with intention, because I never had the attention of my parents. I have learned the power of forgiveness and grace because of my wound.
As I gaze at the massive crucifix hanging from the center of the chapel I thank Christ for the fruit of his wounds. In them I have redemption, salvation, grace and hope.
May my wounds bear those same scars of grace and hope. I keep returning to this question.
I keep asking it to my own soul and I’ve asked it to others. Jesus still has his scars. He showed them to his disciples after his resurrection. I still have mine. I have prayed for so long that God would heal this wound. Through this encounter with Christ on the cross and this spiritual director I heard Jesus whisper, “I have healed it, look at all this fruit.”