Symbel-wynn Reflections

6/20/2023

In our first years as a couple, Brandon and I headed up our church’s softball team. He loved to play, and I enjoyed keeping the stats and cheering everyone on. One year, we were awesome! Most years, we were average. Some Tuesday nights, our line up was packed with a field and bench full of players. Other nights, we were frantically calling people to show up to fill our minimum roster. On one of those deficient nights, I finally agreed to play. To my surprise, I got a base hit! The next batter sent me to third, and, in my overzealous excitement, I slid into the base and gained a most impressive scrape down my knee and shin. The minor pain was well worth the thrill of the slide. It was one of those young adult moments when, after assuming you’re an established grown-up, you realize the child inside you is still very much alive. I eventually made it home, scoring likely a very insignificant run. The next few days, I bragged around, as one does, about my minor, gory glory, pointing out my long gash. Bragging and bemoaning is a large part of the fun of sports, after all. 

A few days passed, and my wound dried into a painful scab that made it hard to bend my knee. I had thought you should just let your scab dry up and fall off. When the discomfort began to impede my movement, I realized I may be missing something. I’m not naturally one to ask for help. My tendency to “just take care of myself” intensified after losing my mom early in life. Habitual subconscious knowledge that there was no one there, no natural comforter, meant I forgot to even think to ask anyone for help. I had scabbed over without noticing.

In addition to weekly softball those days, we were hosting a small church group in our home. Once a just spattering of various souls, we had become close friends and often ended up eating together and hanging out just to enjoy each other’s company. A few days after my moment of meager fame on the softball field, I showed our group’s resident nurse, Leanne, my wound, mentioning that it had become a bit painful and asking casually if I should be doing anything to help it heal. Leanne, ever the nurse and mother, did not wait to be asked for care. Suddenly, I was subjected to a feeling I had long forgotten—or perhaps never knew. She took one look at my knee, bossed me off to the far corners of my small house to gather first aid type items, sat me down on a stool, and began ministering to me. She gently explained that it was important to keep the scab soft, as it was a protective covering to help the skin repair itself underneath. Finally, she placed a bandaid gently overtop and, bending low, planted a kiss on the newly bandaged spot. 

In that moment, something inside me shifted. My “20 something” body remembered something I didn’t know I could forget. My inner child reawakened once again. I’d often known over the years when I missed mom. I knew I missed her hugs and presence, though I’d long since stopped looking for them. I knew I missed her at my graduation or when a niece or nephew was born, but there are things you miss without knowing you’re missing them. 

Leanne had given me an unusual gift in that kiss. She had simply shared a mother’s wisdom and physical affection, unknowingly revealing hidden scabs and dormant scars. I recognized a long present yearning even as it filled with present comfort. In one fell swoop, she had softened wounds of both body and heart, their edges becoming pliable and allowing the growth of healthy skin beneath the protective shell. I suddenly understood that I must be soft to heal. I had felt it begin and would soon move a bit more freely, thanks to the ministering grace of a friend. 

At a different time in my life, I was feeling a similar yearning. I had thumbed open my Bible and let it fall where it would. My eyes fell on Romans 8:26, “Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” I see, now, that Leanne was imaging her God in these mothering moments. She was pouring love into empty spaces, into places where groaning was too deep for words.

I am a mother now and knee deep in scrapes and scabs and questions. I recognize a divine call on my life to follow the Holy Spirit’s lead. Perhaps my meager offerings will be a single thread in the tapestry of His great work both in the lives of my kids and others in my circle. I cannot know what He is doing in the soul of another wounded pilgrim, but I await the opportunity to, perhaps, bend low and plant a kiss on a newly placed bandaid. It is a grace I do not want to forget.