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Just over a week ago, I cut my hand while preparing dinner. I’ll spare you the gory details (except to tell you that the cause of the injury was a kitchen appliance called a mandolin. If you don’t know what that is, go ahead and Google it. I’ll wait.) The resulting wound resembles a rather scabrous crater. (I liked it better a few days ago when it resembled a giant squished spider.) It has yet to endow me with any special abilities (“It’s Mandolin Woman! Able to slice, dice and julienne in a single bound!”), and is likely to turn into a distinctive scar. When it does, it will be in good company.

My BFF Susan and I often compare “war wounds.” Her theory is that people who are covered with burns, cuts and bruises aren’t necessarily klutzes; they just do so much work around stoves, knives and heavy furniture, often while in a hurry, that their injuries are inevitable. And it’s true; we both spend plenty of time in the kitchen. But her hypothesis got me thinking.

I pray a lot, too. So much I fear God gets sick of listening to me. It can be rather like an unfulfilling phone conversation. “I keep talking and talking and YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING!” For instance, I’ve been asking for years for guidance in my career. So far, no burning bushes. If God is answering, I’m too hard of hearing to decipher it.

I thought I was in the right place at last. I’m proud of my work on this website. Then some rude little blogger opines that my writing “sucks.” What am I supposed to do with this information? How is this a sign that I’m on the right track?

But that’s the thing about prayer. Sometimes you don’t get the answers you want. Or any answer at all. Or, more likely, you just don’t see the answer. Whatever the case, it can become painful. Is God listening to me? Am I a bad person? Should I just shut up already?

I keep praying anyway, just like I keep slicing and dicing and sticking my flesh too close to hot skillets and oven racks. I’m going to figure it out one day. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much in the interval.

 

Klutz

My body is a patchwork of bruises,
cuts, scrapes and burns.
I have not been a good steward
of the body You gave me.
I seem to walk it into walls,
and insist it be made of sterner stuff
than flesh and bones.
Forgive me.
Please move me deftly,
like a master puppeteer;
steer my two left feet.

Help me take better care
of this singular gift, my body,
and regard it with proper awe
as Your creation.
And always know:
My trust in You—
unlike my bones—
is indestructible.

-Lori Strawn

 

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