Walking Wounded

I met a man the other day I haven’t seen in a long time. He was a friend when I’d lost most of my other friends and wasn’t even sure there were any I could call “friend” left at all. He was an irreverent, quietly gruff but sincerely nice husband of someone I wasn’t sure whether wanted to associate with me anymore.

See, I’m a fallen angel. My halo is bent, broken and very much tarnished. The last stunt I pulled got me kicked out of a church and lost me most of my friends. Not that I didn’t do something seriously stupid and hurtful. Not that I was doing something heroic or even sane. I just knew I needed to change and grow and I didn’t, in my weak personal state, know how to go about doing it.

Needless to say, I’ve turned out a little bitter, a bit jaded and a lot more suspicious of people who want to befriend me. Especially “church” people. I won’t let most folks too close so they can’t hurt me, can’t make me feel bad about myself or my choices. I don’t want allow anyone to nibble away at the confidence I have found within myself. I am walking wounded.

This irreligious, unbelieving man has turned into a glowing, profound person who deeply believes in miracles. He believes God uses him to heal people. He told me stories of miraculous things he’s seen. To my cynical eyes, he sounds like I used to.  Before I lost everything and found myself. Before I was walking wounded. 

He wants to try healing my son. My small child who will probably struggle with obssessive compulsive thoughts his whole life. My baby boy who may battle his way through school and eventually life with ridicule for his “bad temper”, weird addictions and inability to learn the way others learn. My little man with his different sensitivities and needs.

Would I like my son to be “normal”? Of course, I would! Not for MY sake; because it would make MY life easier. No. For his sake. For how much easier it would be for HIM to go through life. To give HIM the greatest chance to succeed in his life. For the difference it would make in his relationships between his siblings and himself. For the difference it would make in their lives too. I want the best for him, as I want the best for all my children.

That is not the issue.

If healing is a miracle and miracles take faith, can my doubting, my flawed faith, be the catalyst? Do I truly even think someone could help my child or am I only throwing the coin of vain hope into an empty wishing well? I have retained my faith in God but not my faith in man. Sure He can work through men but why would He choose to help my child? What if this process is something that causes him to be more fearful, more anxious? What if it causes something else that makes his relatively mild problem explode into severity?

Doubts and fears for him crowd my spinning brain. My scarred thinking wants to know what this man wants out of this. What he gets out of this. My suspicion prods and pokes my belief. My cynisism mocks my mustard seed faith. Should I take the chance for my “broken” child’s sake?

But he is not broken, he is different. Unique. My dear little angel sent from God for me to love and cherish as he is. He is my own sweet little boy, my Squishy, and I love him completely.

But what if he doesn’t have to become one of walking wounded too?

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