Lenten writings: a lament for pain

The words of the Psalms roll off the tongue, the agony of the words lost in the cadence of the old English.

People say my blogs inspire them. Maybe the agony of the words gets lost in the cadence.

Tonight is A time for lament.

A lament for pain. I have lived with pain as a journey mate for much of my life, the legacy of rheumatoid disease.

Now I am wishing for pain. Two broken bones from an impact hard enough to collapse a part of my lung and I have no pain. I am in my ninth week and my arm feels like it is not part of me. I can feel pressure now if someone pinches a finger or drop something on my arm. But the pain is missing.

I lived with a parent who made pain go away. The cost of that becomes higher and higher. One of the takeaways from being a child in that chaos is that I don’t push down my pain, maybe even when it would be a choice.

Without pain, how do I trust my body. The first lesson in my trust your body curriculum is “your body talks to you.”  If the body isn’t talking, how are the next lessons true?  “You can listen to your body” and “your body tells the truth ” are hard to follow without the messages to guide.

Somehow without pain to guide me in how to use my arm I feel lost. Not because I am masochistic and wish for pain, but because I can’t hear my body talking to me. And without the ability to read those signals, I feel cut off from the essence of who I am. I have lost a sense of trust.

I said I wish for pain and someone said to be careful what I wish for. But I think they have never felt the sensation of not feeling. It is eerie at best, terrifying at worst.

So in this Lenten time I mourn for the pain that is not there.

Grief upon grief.

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