Message from the Directors
September 2010
The Wounds That Heal
My older sister was born two years earlier than I in the same birthday month. From my earliest memory, I believe I was incapable of comprehending that she was older than I and would experience many parts of life before I did. I was certain I could master anything she could. This became problematic on her sixth birthday. I had just turned four. I have no recollection of my birthday that year, but I intensely remember that my sister received a bicycle.
Eagerly, I watched as she rode about on rickety training wheels, knowing I would soon have my turn. I was incensed when I was told firmly that my turn was not forthcoming, I was prohibited from even touching the bike, and I was directed to the red tricycle I'd been riding for the past couple of years. My father tried to explain that I was too small, I could get hurt, I needed to wait until I was at least in Kindergarten before I could ride a two-wheeler. Mutinously I ignored him.
I waited until my sister was in school the next day, then crept outside to try out the new bike. I rode it awkwardly about the top, slightly flattened part of our sloped driveway before I was caught, chastised and banned once again, from touching the bike. This only served to increase my determination.
A set of twin boys lived a few blocks from our home. They had each recently acquired two-wheeled bikes equipped with training wheels. These bicycles were tiny, easy to mount and ride. The twins generously gave me lessons and soon I was riding as easily as they did. Meanwhile, my father felt it was high time the training wheels were removed from my sister's bike. I watched from our living room window as he helped her learn to balance and ride. It looked pretty easy to me.
Once again I began sneaking my sister's bike out while she was at school. I'm not certain if my parents were busy or if I had just learned how to be more quiet about my disobedience, but I was never caught. I practiced balancing the bike. I rode slowly, stopping often to put my foot down to keep from falling. Then, one Saturday I deemed myself ready to show off.
I called my family to watch as I careened down the driveway. I heard my father shout as I rode recklessly into the busy street in front of our house. I heard my sister screaming, “Use the brakes! Use the brakes!” Brakes? That was something new—I had no idea what she was talking about. Unable to stop, I barreled into the high curb on the opposite side of the street, flew over the handle bars, and landed in a heap on the sidewalk.
I received badly scraped palms, a heavily bleeding knee, a large bump on my forehead, and a very long lecture from my parents. My sister was upset at me, as well, for I had scratched her new bike during the unfortunate ride. No one seemed particularly interested in the fact that I'd ridden a two-wheeler, and I'd learned how all by myself. I was in disgrace.
As most children do, I quickly recovered from my adventure, but I was left with a scar on my knee which embarrassed me for the next decade of my life. It was two inches long, about a quarter of an inch wide, and it puffed up above my kneecap in a most undignified shade of pinkish white. As I tanned dark brown in the summer time, it stubbornly refused to take on a darker pigment, standing out as a token of my shameful bravado.
Time has flattened my scar. I grew into it and my tiny child knees matured into adulthood. Today I rarely notice it. It's dimensions haven't changed and it still stands out in stark whiteness when the rest of my skin turns summer brown, but the years have blessed me with so many other marks and scars, the one on my knee hardly seems remarkable.
I relate this story because I believe many of us hide similar marks which shape our lives. As an adult, when I look back at the child I was, I marvel at my stupidity, while simultaneously admiring my grit and resolve and, yes, it's pretty remarkable that someone as small as I could actually pilot that bike as far as I did before I finally crashed. Those traits alternately served and betrayed me as I learned to master my impulsive stubbornness and ultimately came to terms with my lack of immortality. The urge to try anything new, certain I will succeed, has allowed me countless rich experiences as I've grown and learned, and of course, occasionally bought me endless trouble. Opposition in all things...
The marks of our past, both physical and emotional, provide a conduit for human connection. Everyone has a scar story. I have more than my share. But the emotional wounds that heal are often reopened frequently through a thoughtless or uninformed word or act. As those wounds are invisible, we seek to shroud and protect them, certain they will be mocked or misunderstood if viewed by our peers.
Thorton Wilder's play, The Angel That Troubled the Waters, is loosely based on the healing waters of Bethesda referenced in fifth chapter of the New Testament's Book of John. In the play, a doctor seeks healing from his ailment in the pool, but the angel denies him access, saying: “Doctor, without your wounds, where would your power be? It's your melancholy that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men and women. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched on this earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve.”
I wonder how often we deny emotional and spiritual service to others who might connect and grow in understanding and charity, as we hide our wounds or seek to nullify their validity. I'm not talking about wearing them as a badge, or bragging about our hard lot in life. I'm not suggesting we discuss them with every person who crosses our path. Instead I believe the Savior presented a beautiful picture and concrete example of how our wounds can be used to bless the lives of others.
As a resurrected being, Christ had the power to assume a perfect body unmarred by the marks of His crucifixion. Certainly their presence attested to the fact that He was the resurrected Lord, the Savior of the world, and fulfilled prophesies which referenced them. But there was no need for Him to do more than simply show those marks in order to allow them to testify of His identity and divinity. Instead, He humbly and lovingly said to His disciples, “Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself: handle me, and see,” (Luke 24:39) thus allowing His beloved friends to touch Him, granting access to Him physically as well as emotionally.
Later, when Christ appeared to the Nephites, He offered them the same privilege, saying, “Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the prints of the nails in my hands and in my feet, that ye may know that I am the God of Israel, and the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world.” (3 Nephi 11: 14) As soon as Jesus was able to establish a bond with those who were with Him, using the marks signifying the end of His mortal life which also symbolized His sacrifice and love, those followers of Christ became teachable, the emotional ties to their Lord cemented by His presence and accessibility, as well as by the obvious love He felt for each of them personally.
There will come times in our lives when we will have opportunity to share, as Christ did, the wounds of our souls. Most of those wounds will have healed, but the marks they leave on our lives are indelible. Some might cringe at the thought of sharing travails caused by abuse, neglect, addictions, or rape. Some might feel it inappropriate to share lessons learned and blessings received through divorce, infidelity, mental illness, or depression. Many who come to this site might carefully protect the effects, both positive and negative, of living with same-gender attraction while clinging to the principles of the gospel. There are good reasons for being selective about sharing deeply personal parts of our lives.
But there are equally valid reasons for allowing selected individuals to figuratively handle our wounds—to thrust their hands into our sides—that they might see who we really are. Such reasons might include allowing others access to our hearts and encouraging emotional honesty; presenting a true picture of who we are and what we believe; and fostering understanding and offering rich experiences as we develop relationships.
For many years those of us in the LDS community who experience same-gender attraction have hidden from members of our church. We've felt unwarranted shame and guilt as we strive to connect with our brothers and sisters in the gospel. We've tried to conform to a mold presented by human beings—not by Christ who was in all things, a unique individual. Perhaps the time has come to allow those who are ready, those with eyes to see, to view our scars, to see the marks of our lives, and to know the beauty of our souls. As we follow Christ's footsteps in learning to love our brothers and sisters, in living the gospel to the best of our ability, in serving and striving and becoming who He wishes us to be, the journey should not be solitary. As Jesus surrounded Himself with loved ones, friends and family, so should we. And as our “low voice trembles into the hearts of women and men,” I hope we, too, will listen as their voices bear witness of that which shapes and marks their own souls, remembering that “...in love's service, only [the] wounded...can serve.”