Cutters. The Lot of Us.

Running out of milk. It has to be the greatest nuisance. Especially when trying to nourish a growing boy who drinks a quart a day. Not to mention the annoyance of having to go out for more, because you always discover the need at the most inopportune time. Yesterday was no different than any other day. Why should it be? I stopped by my local Walgreens to grab another gallon. As I hurried towards the refrigerators in the back I happened to glance down an aisle at another customer perusing candy. She looked normal enough. Nothing terribly impressive. Nothing terribly fiendish. I took a double take at her shirt before realizing it was a tank top. Almost 70 degrees in Colorado in March practically demands the otherwise questionable fashion choice. But it wasn't the tank top that caught my eye. It was the shimmer of her arms laced with white stripes. From shoulder to wrist, not a single gap visible. At another time in life I might have seen such a thing and wondered with perplexity at the atrocity. But not today. All I thought as I barely broke stride was, huh - that's a lot of pain.

I know pain. I know it well. Pain leaves scars etched across our minds, our hearts, our souls. At times the wounds are so ghastly, so caustic that the only thought that crosses our blurred perception is how can I distract myself from this feeling. I recall laboring with my daughter. They say you don't remember the pain, but I do. I had a focal point on the far side of the room. Every time a contraction hit I would focus on that spot with amazing resilience. During one particularly painful contraction a family member entered the room and addressed me. I broke concentration. The next thing anyone remembers is a moan  in rapid escalation to blood curdling crescendo at who knows what or who - GET OUT!!! Needless to say, the place quickly vacated.

Pain causes us to cut. We cut. And we cut deep. We cut whatever we can get our hands on. I'm not much for cutting myself. Tried it once. Didn't like it. But I learned to cut in different ways. At first I learned to cut with actions. If you hurt me, I was going to take you out. But actions have consequences and I didn't always like those so I moved on.

I learned to cut with my tongue. I learned to cut  down others. If amidst my pain I could find another target on which to focus someone was getting cut. I knew I cut and it took a lot of self-control not to do it. I lashed hard with words. And I was good at it. The better I knew a person, the worse the damage. I knew the soft spots, the vulnerabilities, sensitivities. Vital organs were going to be slashed. But words carry consequences too. And so I learned to restrain those as well.

I graduated to the mother of all cutting. I learned to completely cut people off. You didn't get my revenge. You didn't get biting words. You got nothing. And nothing in this case is worse than something. I've been a parent for ten years now and I've learned that the worse thing you can do to a child is not punishment, or loud words. The worse thing that could happen is neglect and abandonment.  The complete withdrawal of all love. Because even amidst the beatings or verbal assaults, we still receive something. And while it may not seem like much it is all we know that is akin to love. But abandonment? There is no love in that. I learned to abandon. At one point I even abandoned food. I had no image complex. I did not think myself fat or ugly. I had no desire to lose weight. The emotional pain I felt was simply so great that the gnawing hunger pains in my stomach were a comfort and distraction.

We all have means of cutting. I run to dull the pain now. Functionally it's no different than cutting. I feel pain and I reach for my bag of endorphins masquerading as miles. As I briefly glanced at that young woman browsing for comfort food yesterday, I didn't think - oh how terrible. I thought - she's just like me. We're all more alike than we care to admit. We make faulty comparisons, placing degrees of severity on the outward manifestation when the internal struggle is just as damaging and ugly and often far more destructive. No one can see the internal struggle. No one can hear the cry for help.

I didn't write this as a cry for help. I'm not sure why I wrote it at all. I just couldn't seem to erase the image of those meticulously sketched arms from my mind. We all feel pain. It is the result of a fallen world. Consequentially, we all cut. One thing I have come to realize over the years is that no amount of cutting, whether physical, behavioral, verbal or any other sort can take away the pain. They are all mere substitutes until we encounter the One who bore it all. The One who was pierced for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. The One who will eventually erase all pain and sorrow from this world. It is a hope in Him that makes all pain bearable. Hope in the resurrected Christ is why we celebrate Easter, so I suppose it is appropriate that it happened to be Easter Sunday. I just didn't expect to be moved by a run to Walgreens.  

All that for a gallon of milk.