Pain Keepers

It started with a steel spike.  I hammered my stake into the dry ground of my pain and held on tight with bloody knuckles, to a commitment.  I decided it was time to stop losing.  Time for me to dig in, deep, and start keeping.  My pain.  For so long I had tried to lose it.  Just leave it all behind me.  So I could forget it, get over it, be done with it.  Who needs it?  I was through with it, so I could be rid of it.  Toss it in the trash.  Bury it.  In the dust.  Of the past.  Back in time.  Only.  Slowly.  Quietly.  So gently, I hardly noticed, over the years.  I found I had lost, tossed, buried, along with my pain, pieces of me, that I had broken off, too.  Leaving me no longer wholly.  Who I am.

Some pain is too large to be contained.  It just doesn't fit.  Anywhere.  Inside.  I suppose that's why pain is so uncomfortable.  Pain is a foreign object, like a steel spike, a nail.  A fishhook, imbedded inside, but doesn't belong.  Hooking us, by the jaw, like Leviathan.  We are caught.  Containing pain we have no where to put.  So we pull it out, tearing pieces of our tender flesh, away.  Leaving part of us, with the pain.  Broken off and left behind.

I've been on a mission for the last eight years.  Gathering up discarded things from the past.  Steel spikes.  Brass eagles.  Door handles.  Tackle boxes, tool boxes.  And art.  Gathering up discarded things from my past.  Grief.  Despair.  Distress.  Regret, remorse.  And dead ends, of dreams.  Reclaiming.  Resurrecting.  Giving new life to old things, buried, in boxes, in my heart, dusty, with time, rusty, with shame.  It took me years before I understood what I have been doing.  Gathering back up my pain.  To regain, reclaim.  Resurrect.  Pieces of me I have lost, and tossed.  Making me more wholly, who I am.  Giving new life.  To old spikes, and dreams.

I discovered what I had been doing when I discovered this old steel stake, kept for me, in a dusty box, on a shelf, in a store, discarded, buried in time.  I noticed how it felt in my hand.  Heavy.  Like my heart, weighted down, with rusty shame.  Staining my skin.  I carried it, my first pain keeper, home with me, where it lives.  Still.  Today.  I saw how it looked in my eyes.  Piercing.  Stabbing.  Pain.  Hammering a spike.  Into my mind, stuck in the dry ground of grief.  Shame.  Nailing my heart down in despair, my soul down under distress.  And I was hooked, by the jaw, with regret, remorse.  And I just wanted.  A dead end.  Of my pain.  I wanted it pulled out by the roots.  Pulled out side of me.  I heard how it sounded.  Ripping with my flesh.  As it fell, with a hard thud.  Like my prayer.  From an open scarred palm.  Marring, with my iron knees, our wooden floors.  Shining.  With Glory.  

I reached down.  Gathered it back up, like water, from the floor of my heart.  And I stood up, from the wooden floor, finding.  My pain, shining.  With Glory.  No longer rust stained with shame.  Fit.  In my open, scarred palm, in my open, scarred soul.  Where I could roll it over in my hands, in my mind, mull it over in my heart, in my soul, in the Word, hidden, inside me.  Until I felt.  My Pain.  Healed up, with my flesh, scarred over, my pain fit, now, back inside me, shining with glory.  And I found what had been broken off.  Making me more wholly.  Who I am.

I still gather up things from the past, from my past.  From store shelves, from the shelves of my heart.  And we work together, these things and me, with the Word.  We are Pain Keepers.  Scarring over pain imbedded inside.  So I can keep it.  Because I need it.  Shining the floors of my heart, with Glory.

I have discovered, so much, while I have been on this mission.  Glory.  Looks, sounds, tastes, feels... different than what I used to think it should.  It's not just a sparkling new thing, its an ancient nail.  Silent.  Bitter.  Thudding.  Imbedded.  Pain.  Scarred over flesh.  Healed up, with pain, inside.  Wholly present.  Keeping pain.  Inside.  Gathering glory.  Until it's needed by some one I know.  Who knows.  I know Pain. Because Pain is Still, inside me.  I don't have much to offer, some one in Pain, but I do have an open scarred palm and weathered hands hammering steel kneed prayers into a lone tree, shining with Glory.  And a stake.  Baring Beauty.  Pain Keepers.  Like me.

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