It is painful to be crucified with Christ. . . 

But it is not PAIN without PROMISE. . .

And it’s the Promises of God that guarantee the beauty that becomes of Properly Processed pain.

So how do we properly process pain?

We CAN’T.

Our tendencies will always be maladaptive and unhealthy.  I’ll always want to retract from the hurt of healing.  I’ll always want comfort and numbing and distraction and denial over the pain of truth that the ACTUAL MIGHTY COMFORTER brings.

And because  I CAN’T OVERCOME THE TENDENCIES OF MY FLESH – – THE INSTINCTS THAT FAIL ME –

I must bring it to THE ONE that can.

For He can do all things. . . 

He wipes the blood from my hands,  He breathes back life to those who’ve lost it.  He frees me from the trap of TRAUMA. He wipes my brow, gently pushes back my hair and he touches the shattered places inside my soul and makes them as miraculous mosaic stained glass. . .

One day I was gutted and hollowed, a zombie who wandered in the wilderness.  I had been saved for eternity but ripped apart for the rest of my time on earth. 

And I walked upon Him one day and He was handling pieces of my guts, flesh, fractured memories, fragments of devastation, slivers of terror, and little notes written to me from the enemy with just one word on them : “murderer” 

“unfit” 

“alone” 

“failure”

“wrong” 

“careless”  

They were attached to arrows that had been violently flung into my heart.  It was appalling and gross.  I recognized all of it intimately but I’d never touched it myself and I’d never let anyone else touch it either.  I gasped in shock seeing it all laid out like that. . . 

And He heard me and turned around and said

“ Hey, come rest while I finish this up for you”He was grinning as if this would be a joyful task for Him.

He laid me on a bed of roses and his scarred hands worked.  In His presence, I rested for the first time.  My whole soul relaxed.  And I relinquished the shame that each piece held – – when I woke up I felt clear and  a sunrise was breaking through the trees – – I still remembered the carnage of my heart but there was no sign of all that bloodshed and I could see something hanging from a tree in the distance.  It was blinding but I quietly whispered, “ Let me see. Give me eyes to see.”

And the blinding light softened enough that I could see it was a sparkling stained glass window – – the work of a master craftsman – – I could feel it was actually made of feathers from angles wings and that each one had a life of its own – – touched by God himself.  I could feel the healing it represented but saw absolutely no sign that it was made from my brokenness.

But it was. 

 It’s just that. . . 

It was somehow – – 

A COMPLETELY NEW THING.  

And that I cannot explain for the same reason I couldn’t heal it myself. . .

I woke up for real, this time in the flesh, feeling very at rest but I knew the stained glass window was still hanging in the hall of my heart and that it would become part of a gallery of many. . . each place of brokenness becoming a window of beauty with which to see my Father more clearly.  This may be part of what He’s preparing for me In Heaven – – that these will be the very real windows in my very real mansion in that very real place.  But for now my home is this body and it’s somehow became an even more beautiful by the things that could have wrecked it.