Address the Harms

“I thank God for pain,” said Dr. Paul Brand, “I cannot think of a greater gift I could give my leprosy patients.” Brand is the doctor who first discovered that leprosy does its damage by killing off nerve endings and was a leading expert on the treatment of a disease that still exists and still holds a vicious stigma. The loss of pain receptors means that simple injuries, like a splinter or a blister, become problematic, because the victim doesn't have the ability to feel these injuries and tend to them.

Our ability to feel pain is often the conduit we need to address the injury before more damage is done. Pain saves us; forces us to identify and address the harms facing us. One of the main injuries suffered by lepers is the loss of sight; the nerve endings that remind eyes to blink are destroyed, so dust settles in and causes infection.

My pastor, Amanda, spoke on exile this week, and the story of Jesus healing the lepers (Luke 17 for those who want to reference) and only one came back to thank him. I wonder if the reason only one came back is because of what this healing looked like. Does healing mean that all the sores left and the lepers went away looking brand new, or does it mean their nerve endings grew back? By that I mean, did Jesus blessed them by restoring their ability to feel, even while leaving the sores and infections? To an outsider, no healing would've taken place. But to that leper, it would certainly be known. How overwhelming that would be, to suddenly feel for the first time these wounds that were visible but unfelt. It would be painful, but it would be progress.

I wonder how our pre-defined definitions of what healing looks like limit our understanding of it. Maybe part of the healing process is feeling, for maybe the first time, the wounds we carry, the dust in our eyes.

This Steady Scenery

I bought a whitewater kayak this past week.
An old one, which in kayaking terms, is 7 years.
How appropriate. 7 years ago is when I was told I wasn't “allowed” to paddle anymore.
I had just finished college and was packing to move to New Hampshire, to work in my friends' kayaking shop on Lake Winnipesaukee. I was to teach flatwater and whitewater paddling for the summer, and possibly extend the work into a permanent position. I'd had back problems for about two years at that point, and finally went to a doctor to get it checked out.
He told me he feared that the problems were structural and that paddling could prolong or even worsen the issues. He told me I shouldn't paddle anymore.
There went my future, my plans and part of my identity.
Since then I've only paddled a handful of times; I haven't attempted to roll a kayak and have stuck to mostly easy runs. Life kept moving while that love in me was left in that moment, as if an anchor had been set while the ship above kept trying to sail. Later I found out that paddling wouldn't cause any more structural damage, rather it would cause blinding, debilitating pain.

I've recently begun a rather aggressive chiropractic treatment for my back. It is a process; some days the pain is dramatically less, others it is just as bad as it has been. What gives me hope is that there are changes; that the pain isn't the maddening hum of years past. There are changes in the steady scenery of pain. Maybe this time I will get better.
But then again, maybe the pain stays.
I bought a boat because I don't care anymore.
If I am in pain, then I will stick to the small kayaking runs.
If I am in pain, I won't paddle much.
But I've let pain keep me from something that brings me life for far too long, and in this, the year of sweetness, I'm willing to try anything. I want to lift that anchor, bring it with me. No matter how little, how infrequent or how minor my paddling ends up being, I'm willing to try. I'm smart enough to know I should.

(Older posts about this: Here, Here, Here, Here)