When the Bandages Came Off

The morning I checked out of the hospital, it was time to remove the wraps from surgery and have a look to see how the wound was healing. Mayfield had warned me the day before, saying that some women don’t look at all and that others are desperate to see it ASAP. As for me, I thought of the matter as relentlessly inevitable. I had seen nothing with my own eyes, so on some level I still looked like the woman of my wedding photos. But, after all, I was in the ICU of an Army hospital. Surely something must have happened.

I sat at the edge of the bed. Mayfield, his nurse, the ICU nurse and Bryan were all in the room. But when the bandages came off and I looked down, there was nothing in the room.

There are very very few times when I am not thinking something. This was one of those times. There was nothing but sadness. I realized from almost outside of myself that I was in the midst of a resigned weeping.

I vaguely heard Mayfield say that it was going to be all right, that I was a warrior. I get his metaphor, of course. He’s an Army doctor. He’s a West Pointer. He’s worked on real warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan. It makes perfect sense for him to bring a martial frame—the talk of enemies and battle plans and strategies—to the entire cancer event. But none of this feels like fighting. It feels like something to endure, and to be led through.

I also vaguely realized that Mayfield was gently re-fastening my gown, and then from there it was a glowing report of how great everything looked. As for me, I could not look away.

Now, two weeks later, I experience something much different when I look at myself. Different enough that when I write about it, I’ll label it “The Lighter Side.” But that First Look is burned into memory. There are a few experiences that, when I re-visit them and re-member them, make me cry all over. Very likely, this one will be among them.

And I’ve been wondering lately whether I would choose it for myself. You know, the past Spring I did a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It was life-changing. And Jesus says near the start of it, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

There was a real question in this statement, and it’s one that stares me in the face as I do my wondering about whether I’d pick this road for myself: Do you really want to see God? Amy! If you could see God as a result of circumstances that also include looking down at your own carved up body, do you really want to see Him?

Pontius Pilate and Herod come to mind. Those two buffoons of the Gospel accounts. Seriously. I am so struck at how Pilate was simply uninterested in Jesus. Here he was, the Roman official, assigned to the backwater province of Palestine. Probably had ambitions of finishing up his tour there so he could go back to Rome to be a power broker, maybe even a senator.

He (and those before, and those after him) famously took up residence in Jerusalem once a year, at the time of Passover because that was the only time the Jewish city caused the Empire any angst. What would all those Jews do, all gathered together? Would that religious celebration of theirs ignite a rebellion one of these days? So, the Prefect from Rome would show up with all his guards and a heavy presence, and discourage the feast from becoming anything more than their yearly ritual. And when, inexplicably, these people brought before him a guy who seemed innocuous, maybe a little perplexing, what did Pilate do? Did he want to do anything more than handle this sudden inconvenience?

Not so much. His own wife had had disturbing dreams the night before, and something about Jesus recommended itself to Pilate enough that he’d “wash his hands” of the whole affair—that is, Pilate had a clue there was something unique about Jesus—but when he was actually in the hot seat himself, what did Pilate ask? Did he really want to see who Jesus was?

No. He gives this half-hearted effort at questioning the prisoner and when Jesus told Pilate He came to testify to the truth, do you know what Pilate said? “What is truth?” Kind of like, “Yeah, Yeah, buddy, I’ve got half a dozen friends and enemies jockeying for position in the center of the universe, where I come from, and each one has a version of the truth.”

I’ve often wondered about the heart of a guy like Pilate. He so obviously didn’t want to see Jesus. Was he alive a couple decades later, when The Way became big enough to capture the attention of the Empire? Did he comment over drinks with friends that he, in fact, had been the one to crucify the guy who started the whole annoyance? Who’d have thought? Of all the hundreds—maybe even thousands, we don’t know much about Pilate’s career—of men he’d had executed, who could have guessed that this one particular, humble Jewish guy would be so slow to die away? Was Jesus, for Pilate, only ever an intellectual curiosity?

And then there was Herod. “When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform some miracle. He plied Jesus with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer.”

That’s one thing this last month has shown me: Sure, I’m no Pilate. But to what extent am I a Herod? It’s easy to sing the worship songs, and enjoy my church family, and look forward to hearing about God’s next miracle—it’s easy to be religious. Do I want to see God? Sure. If He wants to show up and heal someone in an instant, of course I want to see that.

But Jesus has no answer for the heart that seeks after the signs and wonders.

If seeing God means seeing something with my eyes that seers into memory a forever-sad moment, do I still want to see Him?

Blessed are the pure of heart. OK. But purity of heart? There’s nothing I can do for myself to have a pure enough heart for God. Wanting to see God in the first place? It’s a fair question.