Of Bears and Penguins

The late night writing shift just came on board.

Punched in at the time clock, threw their stuff in the locker. Sat down to start pounding away at the image the day shift left on deck.

When knees were skinned as a kid, my Grandmother's treatment was a thick, goupy salve. I think it was called Black salve, though it was creamy white and thicker than vaseline.

It had a distinctive smell that is sitting just past where I can reach in my memory, otherwise I would describe it to you. Someday, I'm sure I'll be wandering through an antique emporium, or some small town drugstore tucked between a church and a laundromat, and I'll smell it. It will all come back to me, I will instinctively roll up my pant leg to reveal my knee as though ready for a fresh application. And then I will be sure and write you all and tell you exactly how it smelled.

It smelled thick. And the smell hung on you as you ran back outside to commence play, or settled with your summer evening dish of ice cream. It smelled like salve, a little iffy, a little dicey. A smell that made you wonder if it was actual going to your wound any good. But Grandma didn't ask you whether you wanted it, she just kept daubing away at you. And you trusted her faith in that ointment.

I bring this up because I can't get that ointment out of my head.

If you've been following the blog recently, you'll know that I am in the midst of what may be referred to as "a time of trial," or alternately "deep, searing, painful ache," or "a great sadness."
And in the midst of that I keep thinking about that thick, gloppy, ointment that always felt a little warm as it got applied.

While playing hymns at the piano - "All creatures of our God and King," and in the back of mind I can hear that flat, oval cannister of ointment being opened.

"Lift up your voice and with us sing," and I can see a hand digging down deep into the salve, getting more than enough.

"Alleluia," and I see an image of my heart (or soul - maybe they're the same). And my heart's skinned up, my soul's got little bits of gravel at the edge of the scrape. It's banged up like it fell hard, and skidded several yards.

I had a bicycle wreck like that once when I was a kid. I hit a bump funny and flew headfirst (no helmet!) over my handle bars. My elbows took the brunt of it, with my knees following after them.

"Oh Praise Him" and as I keep playing, keep sounding those dear and sturdy chords, I see that hand, all heaped up with that salve. And I can nearly smell it. The hand pauses before my soul, considering the best approach.

"Thou burning sun with golden beam," and suddenly there's cool water pouring out over my soul, it's washing away all that ground dirt, all that gravel, all that peeled, and blistered soul skin. And the water keeps pouring over my soul. It is cool and sweet, and it runs till some of the heat of the wound is gone.

"Thou silver moon with softer gleam." Now the ointment comes. I remember that in its application as a child, it always seemed to fill up the wound, to cover it completely so that no dirt could get in, and so that the body would do it's work of healing. This ointment's being dabbed all over my soul, in deep cuts and at the edges where the skin is pink. I can feel the warmth of it.

"Oh, praise Him, Alleluia."

My Lord gave Moses a burning bush.

My Lord gave Balaam a talking donkey.

My Lord gave the disciples a ridiculously, impossible catch of fish.

My Lord has given me the unshakeable image of a thick, odd smelling ointment.

"Oh Praise Him, Alleluia."

When I was still small enough that my feet dangled from the church pew, I remember singing about a balm in Gilead, reading about a balm in Gilead, giving thanks in prayer for the balm in Gilead.

I was utterly baffled by what a balm in Gilead was. But somewhere along the way, still in that feet dangling era, I made the connection between that black salve that got glopped on my wounds, and the balm in Gilead.

There is one who knows best how to care for a skinned, banged up, weary, weary soul. He knows better than I, and so I submit to His balm. To that heavenly salve, that looks so strikingly similar to what was in my Grandmother's medicine cabinet.

Now, as then, I trust that the one who applies it knows the good it will do.

Wounded souls, like wounded knees, don't heal in an instant, I'm learning. Mine's tender yet, still a little raw.

But I know that my Lord has the ointment nearby, and that He is applying it regularly, as long as I just sit still for a bit and let Him.

So I keep sitting down to the piano, and pounding out those hymns. And as I pound them out, concentrating on the chords, my Lord comes near, and He washes my soul with that cool water, and He digs down deep into that balm, and restores my soul. It is an ongoing, everyday process.

And then we rest together. I keep pounding and singing. And my Lord, He delights in my song.

Oh praise Him indeed.