To Fix and to Heal

I am a fixer, born of fixers, in a land of broken things. I often find myself under the leaky sink, or on the porch with a flat tire, or in the yard with a broken chair from the side of the road*.

And when I find myself broken, my own heart in dissaray, I quickly become my own project. I look back and analyze my behaviors, my decisions. Where was sin, and where was failure? I look long and hard at the present. Where am I missing the mark, and where do I have the wrong idea entirely? And I graph out the future. What scenarios will do what to/for me? What will I say or do to recover?

The first time I remember this experience of self-consuming introspection was many years ago working on summer staff at Camp. I was desperate to hear God's voice, but could not perceive it. I spent hours praying for a 'diagnosis', hours searching scripture for a reason or a method or an answer. I wept for my inability, and pressed ever further into my own self-analysis, to the point of despair.

I remember when I came out of it, too. I went to bed one night, halfway through the summer, just worn out. I was tired of fighting, tired of trying to do what I could not do, tired of endless self-analysis. So, in my top bunk in the corner of the staff house, I simply asked for joy. That my frustration and despair would be gone, and joy would replace it. After months of seeking to fix my situation, I gave up, and asked that I would be healed.

And, sure enough, the next morning broke with joy. Steady, stable, deep joy. Joy without explanation, healing without diagnosis.**

It's hard for me to want to be healed without knowing what is wrong. Because if I can recognize and understand my problems, I believe I might have some control over them. If I know why I don't perceive His voice, I can place myself such that I can perceive it. If I know why I hurt, I can prevent hurt from recurring.

But I forget that, when I find myself emotionally broken, my reason is broken as well. And even if my reason was pure, right understanding does not produce right love (1 Corinthians 13:2). My ability to diagnose my problems is impossibly flawed, as is my every solution.

In seasons of hardship I desperately seek to figure it all out, to understand and to fix it, whatever it may be. But recently the Lord has been reminding me that all of it -my world, my community, my heart- is not mine to fix. It is His to heal. And He is faithful to do it. He simply asks that I let Him. It is a humbling, frightening surrender; but it is the very path into joy. Introspection can be a great tool unto holiness; but when it becomes my hope for recovery, it proves a horrible master. There is greater hope in the mystery of a God who took on flesh. And here, where my understanding fails, a better Master is found to heal.

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*I found two matching wooden Adirondack chairs, one year apart, in front of the same house downtown. Both look great now, though I'm still looking for just the right hinge-pin.

**I heard God's voice, too. But that is a story for another day.