Bruised

Why is it that often, boo-boos get worse before they get better?

I fell this week. Those of you who have known me for more than five minutes just rolled your eyes and said, “Again?!”

Yes. Again. (Just call me “grace.”)

And about four days after my initial tumble, I found myself in the prayer closet (aka “the shower”), staring at the enormous purple and green bruise on my leg, thinking, “Dang! Why do bruises always get worse before they get better?”

Mary DeMuth says that “a thin place is a place where you experience the presence of God, where the veil between heaven and earth are thin.” And tonight, the shower was “a thin place.”

A year ago this week, I started my uncontrollable slide into the pit of depression and PTSD. The way I explained it to my friend, Lena, I’d managed to bury my past for a long time, but the corpses started raising from the dead. I’ve been having to have them re-autopsied and properly buried. Looking back, I wish I’d known how to handle them properly in the first place….

So tonight, I look at my bruise, and at first, I just see the reminder that I got hurt. It’s ugly. It’s uncomfortable. And I’m suddenly glad that it’s too cold out for bare legs. But then, I realize something else — the bruise is changing because it’s healing. And that gives me hope.

And yes, that is a picture of the actual bruise. I thought about not posting it. But I’ve got to stop being ashamed of my bruises…