The Wounded Healer
The lemon tree
With its vibrant yellow fruit
And dark green foliage
Hides a menacing secret
Tiny daggers run along the branches
Ready to pierce the skin
Of the unsuspecting hand
That tries to pluck one of its precious fruits
The thorn finds my thumb
As I bend down to clear the weeds
Beneath the shade of the tree
Blood sprouts from the tiny wound
“God heal my thumb!”
My mind shouts without thinking
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me”
The cries of Jesus rang
As his hands were pierced
As thorns encircled his head
Did he ask for his wounds to be healed
When he fulfilled his promise to return?
When the fingers of Thomas
Traced the violence his body endured?
Or were his wounds a visual parable
That we do not need to hide
That hope and healing sprout forth
From the holes in our hands
and the cracks in our hearts
An invitation
To be wounded healers