The Healer

One of my worst traits is that I always want to fix the broken parts of people. And by fix, I mean heal. And by heal, I mean love.

I dive right in, straight to the darkest, bloodiest, most carefully hidden places of a person, and I curl up there. I live in their shame and embarrassment; I warm them up with tender words and gentle reminders that their soul has such a lovely place to reside. I dust off some forgotten smiles and sweep up the rubble left over from any unkind intruders. I polish the windows, turn on some music. Sometimes, all it takes is a clean slate.

But other times it takes something a lot more than that. Sometimes it takes weeks or months or years and still, the job is never done. And that’s when I wind up covered in the evidence, darkened and weighed down by problems that might be foreign to my body. Problems that might seep through my cracks, might not wash away later that night. Still, I do it with a smile – anything is worth it to lighten their load.

Before I leave, whether for an hour or forever, I always like to trace my name into a quiet corner. Not so much to be remembered or thanked or to feel accomplished, but to be a constant. Not only do I want to fix people, but I want to love them. And to love them, I must be there for them – always.

I am a lover and a healer and a fixer. I do good things. The trouble with people like me is that we often fail to draw clear lines. We overstep a lot of boundaries. If we aren’t careful, we do more harm than good – especially to ourselves.


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