Healing

I’m healing.
Forward.
Towards the sunset where a new moon rises
And on the other side of the world
The night wraps itself in the new light of morning.
A zillion stars wink in wonder at their vast, mysterious beauty
And fade into the day.

My healing has been vast and mysterious
No razor-edged boundary to string a line from A to Z.
My healing is mysterious.
There is no specific day to mark the moment I reconciled with forgiveness
Or released painful memories to life's history books.
My healing is nailed to the cross
And held by Him whose hands are torn
With a love that knows no boundary, and has no limit
Into the vast mysteriousness of healing.


Why do I write about healing? In eight days, my husband and I will be landing in Calcutta, India. On our way home from language school (here in Mussoorie, India), we will “drop in” on the city of Mother Theresa. Five years ago I left Calcutta, and it’s time to return. Our visit will last 4.5 days with plans to do little else but sip chai and refresh our relationships of lost years. I will treat Ben to Calcutta’s finest luxury of sweet curd/yogurt and sugar-soaked donut balls (gulab jamun). We will visit Mother Theresa’s burial sit and Oxford Bookstore too, where Academy award-winning documentary, Born into Brothels, displayed the art-work of the children of Calcutta’s prostitutes.

Sounds like an adventure. So why this poem? Because returning to Calcutta is personal. Very personal. If I had bruises to mark a five year-journey I would show you! But I don’t. I only have a heart endeared to God. All I have to show you, really, is me on the other side alive and anxious, prepared and prayer-filled, empowered and contagiously giddy. No sob story to share.

That’s life. At its worst. At its best. But it all belongs to Him.