What’s the Difference Between Fixing and Healing?
This past July marked my first year with City Relief. And in the past year, I have pondered this question constantly. I came on staff when the world was seemingly on fire. At the onset of a global pandemic, I joined a collective of individuals compelled to run into the fray rather than away from it. And though I was once in awe of what they can do, I found myself more in awe with who they are. At the core of what brought each person to this team was not solely their merit, but their wounds and scars. These are what inspire them to work, even against the current of a cataclysmic reality. After all, I think we can all agree that this past year has been wounding. Especially for our friends on the street.
When I think of wounds, I am reminded of two guests I befriended on the street, whom I will call E and J.
E is a woman well into her 50s, still grappling with the depths of her addiction. Over multiple conversations, she shares the heaviness of her struggles. During one of our talks, she rolled up her sleeves to reveal a collection of marks on her wrist: self-inflicted wounds that reflect a traumatic life. They are a physical manifestation of the internal battles that wage daily. And though the cuts have since scarred over time, the internal wounds are as open and present as ever. This is evident in the quiver of her slurred words, and the tears that frame her face.
J is a man I met during outreach at the Bowery. I have had many eventful conversations over the course of months. J has lived a life filled with what he would describe as regrettable decisions. He believes his current life situation is penance for a life of sin. And yet, this acknowledgement brings no levity to the gravity of his lament. Each time I see J, he returns with new cuts and bruises: the toll of a life on the streets.
E and J are still in the thick of their stories, having not yet pushed through to the proverbial “other side.” Their stories can be suffocating to hear. Oftentimes, I find myself, ironically, frantically seeking relief from the weight of their respective crosses. This is when I am tempted to foolishly offer solutions to fix a problem way out of my league. But when clarity snaps back, I realize all I can offer is to be present. Fixing has not really happened yet. But I believe healing can.
So, what is the difference between fixing and healing? I posit that it is the same phenomenon that distinguishes between pity and compassion. It is what helps weave grace into a story otherwise filled with suffering. It breaks the loneliness of hurt. It moves stories into testimonies that will play out even if obstacles are perpetual. This distinguishing factor uses wounds as healing agents.
It always struck me that Jesus would present his scars as evidence of his identity. It’s astounding to think that the post-resurrection body would even bear scars. But not only did his body bear the marks of crucifixion, he openly invited Thomas to touch these wounds to quell his doubts. It makes sense that there would be more power in vulnerability than there would have been if Christ had flexed his divine muscles to grandstand. After all, Isaiah states that “by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5) Henri Nouwen once wrote in his book The Wounded Healer, “What we can know, however, is that man suffers and that a sharing of suffering can make us move forward.” This is the invitation to openly offer our wounds to help bring healing for others.
Did you know that the latin root for the word compassion means “co-suffering?” Compassion compels us to commit to the hard work of healing, sometimes at the forfeiture of immediate fixing. It challenges us to forgo asking if we’ve done enough, electing instead to ask what more can we do? We grit our teeth and dig our heels in for the long haul, because we trust healing can and will happen.
If you ever find yourself serving at one of our outreaches, I encourage you to take a minute and look around. Each staff, volunteer, and guest there is present with his or her own story and the wounds to show for it. But hope and healing does not happen at the absence or end of suffering, but in the very midst of it. We are co-suffering along with our friends because we have committed to the slow work of healing through compassion. It is baked into the DNA of the work we have committed ourselves towards. There is a present invitation to vulnerability. It is the call to walk alongside our friends though the valley of the shadow of death as we boldly declare Immanuel. We can do this because we follow the example and promise of The Wounded Healer.
Joe Bae, City Relief Outreach Leader
