It’s so scratched, and I don’t know if it will work.
I’m sad, because I think I need it to rescue me.
A Beth Moore CD, the last session of the study, “A Woman’s Heart.”
But like Switchfoot sings on spotify while I wait for the CD to load, I’m always His. And He’s the One who rescues over and over, pulls me out of the pit and paid the price for the whore like Hosea redeemed Gomer.
I sway like I’m playing the piano, and remember that typing words is a making music of sorts.
Close my eyes, and drink in the truth: that I am His, always.
Even when I wake up so groggy, so weighed down, watch Boy Meets World with Brother before Bible reading. Go on facebook and check email and play tetris before listening to CD, CD that’s supposed to rescue me, which I only think because I’ve taken my eyes off of my true Rescue.
The melody in my ear reminds me otherwise. Set my mind back on Him.
Remember: infection festers under makeshift bandages, fashioned to hide, not to heal. Healing only comes in exposure, in applying the burning and stinging, and yet cleansing, salve.
The healing balm hurts, but it brings hope: hope that it won’t hurt forever, hope that I won’t hurt forever (Revelation 21:4). And it hurts, but not worse than the burdening lie of hopelessness, that it’s better to hide than to heal. And that pain is there to prick and to prompt me to realize: I want to be healed.
Switchfoot finishes, and I turn off spotify, await the fate of the scratched CD. It sounds sure, until a minute and a half into track three. The scratches leave scars that render it useless.
I look at the wounds on my heart, beating blood, and wonder: when the scarlet becomes scars, will I be rendered useless?
But I remember again: Rahab, and red rope, and rescue (Joshua 2, 6). And that scarlet is a sign of second chances. My scarlet sins that stain like the blood that my heart beats, are washed white as purest fresh snow by the flesh broken to pour the blood that doesn’t stain (Isaiah 1:18). And it’s only God that takes this only pure blood, of His only Son, and applies it to the stains on my heart to rid the red and make it bright and white like the righteous robes of Christ (2 Corinthians 5:21).
Scars speak of survival. So when the wounds have been tended to and the pain is no more, I will sing of survival, of mysteriously and miraculously being washed white by the Savior’s blood. And what’s useless about a soul healed?
Healed souls proclaim the Healer. And the beautiful thing is, they can proclaim in the process of healing. They can proclaim with faith that the wounds will become scars, and the same blood that rids red—erases scarlet sin stains—faces no wound too wide to heal.
I may lie on the ground while my heart bleeds, but however faint the voice may be that escapes my lips, I will lift it with hope. Because I know it’s only in exposing the wounds, and accepting the salve, and enduring the cleansing pain of killing all that threatens to infect my exposed heart, that I will be able to stand again. And as the wounds heal and the scars form, I will proclaim louder and louder the song of a soul healed:
I am rescued. I am always His.