Pre-Op

In two days I go under the knife. What a quaint and grotesque phrase, “under the knife.” Appropriate, though. For the first time, steel will taste my flesh, humans will look inside me and see my damage. Hopefully they can fix it, to the extent it can be fixed. It’s not really registering yet, I think. I always strive to be in control, and for the first time I will be completely helpless, at the mercy of another human being. It’s a powerful feeling of powerlessness. And though fear extends filmy fingers across the horizon of my thoughts, they are dim members amidst the bright promise of healing. Can I be healed? Will this be a turning point in my life?

I approach a crossroad. My third decade of life on earth begins with new experiences, new challenges, new promise. What will my eyes see going forth? What streets or terrain will my shiny new legs traverse? Or will they plod the same rambles and stumbles they have heretofore trod? Will I change? Can I change? Do I want to change? Will I take the opportunity that beckons like new spring after a cold, dismal winter? Or face the groundhog’s shadow and sink wearily into stupor, sating my appetites with rubbish best consumed by fire, not fit for the lowest scavengers?

A clock ticks behind me, summoning my remaining hours, counting off the chapter’s end to my story so far. Will the new chapter read like an epic? Full of adventures, triumphs and tragedies, grand and operatic? Or will I settle into a comfortable regimen and find satisfaction in the familiar things? Will my pursuit of Jesus lead anywhere? Or do I pantomime my faith?

Who could ever love me? This is a hard truth, the fact of God’s love. It’s a love that pierces every prevarication I erect, every subterfuge to which I resort, every filthy corner I try to hide in. God compels me with His love, against my wishes it seems. Why doesn’t He leave me alone? What have I done to deserve such attention? Why cannot I have peace from His o’erwhelming presence?

But I have spoken with forked tongue. Because when I do turn away from Him, the horror of myself, my nature, what I’m capable of disgusts me to the point of death. I turn away in despair, and find that I have turned back to Him. And He washes my face with His tears. And He bathes me with the Light of His presence. And He clads me with raiment pure and white, His terrible and wonderful presence burning away my soiled and shabby rags like ether in the wind. Not even I can separate myself from His dogged affection, His dauntless joy, His irrepressible salvation.