I’d been wanting another pick-me-up. A little something besides my morning coffee to wake up my smile and put an extra spring in my step. For whatever reason, I landed on salt scrub. You know, that stuff you rub yourself silly with in the shower to smooth the rough spots and heal your dry skin. It needed to be scented, of course, but nothing too floral smelling. Something invigorating. That screamed sunshine and happiness.
Being the obsessed, diehard researcher that I am, I scoured the internet for the ultimate in salt scrubs and found one proudly promoting itself as being 100% pure dead sea salt, with a blend of skin smoothing oils, organic, and having an “uplifting lemongrass” scent.
It was a dream come true. It fulfilled everything it promised.
And then some.
Day one I was ecstatic; its oily, course essence making me smell like a bowlful of lemon drops and my skin softer than a baby greased in butter. I swear, that slapped a smile on my face and put a quick in my step so fast, I could hardly contain myself. I was in heaven. Day two proved to be just as wonderful, and I was thrilled to add this new, valuable step into my daily routine. That is, until that day.
Because a few weeks later, on that day, my beloved salt scrub turned on me. And instead of slapping a smile on my face, it slipped me a few tears as I held my poor, sweet hand under the water, in hopes of alleviating the excruciating pain emanating from my finger.
Just so you know, if you ever want to find out if you have a paper cut, buy some salt scrub. You’ll know in about 2.3 seconds.
And just like that, what used to be my friend, quickly turned into my foe. And sunshine and birds singing turned into lightning bolts and Nana cursing. It was quite the scene. And also, quite sobering; all the time I had thought my precious fingers were just fine, they weren’t. One of them had a wound that was imperceivable.
Only when it met up with a certain substance, was the wound detected.
Just like our other wounds. The internal ones that cause us to overreact to people in our lives, when in reality, those lovely people are just exposing imperceptible injuries in our souls by rubbing up against us.
Like the times my husband wouldn’t call me during his busy work day, and I would take it as rejection. Just an innocent omission on a busy man’s part would send me spiraling into self-pity and doubt; all because I had unattended wounds that were still open and vulnerable to even the smallest grain of salt.
I’ll never forget something Beth Moore said a few years ago. She said, if you have a scar, you can show it to people, talk about it, even let others touch it, and it won’t bother you or cause you pain. Because scars don’t hurt.
Which means if it does hurt, it’s not a scar.
It’s still a wound.
This makes me wonder . . .
How many imperceptible wounds are we carrying around and blaming others for, when in reality, they’re just picking a scab off of something that’s already there?
How many times are we unknowingly picking a scab off of somebody else’s wound and then reacting poorly when they get hurt, instead of seeking to look behind their pain to see if maybe there are hidden wounds there that have nothing to do with us?
How many times are we, ourselves, applying salt scrub to somebody else’s wound and adding in-salt to injury in the name of trying to “help” them, by saying things like, “just count it all joy,” when what they really need is a big ol’ hug and a shoulder to cry on?
“Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.”
Seasoned with salt. Not using the whole dang tub. And certainly not in someones wound.
I learned a few things in the shower that day (besides don’t put salt scrub on a paper cut). For one, salt can be a wonderfully healing agent but it can also cause a lot of pain. Trust me on this one.
Two, what seems fine-looking on the outside, oftentimes isn’t. So when something rubs up against me and causes me to flinch, I might want to check it out and see if there’s an overlooked wound that needs some attending to, before I blame it on that irritant that’s rubbing up against me.
And third, I don’t need to fear those things that do rub up against me because they can be both wound-revealing and life-refining. For if I let them, they can be used to polish me up to a smooth, butter-baby finish. Both inside and out.
Wishing you a smooth, butter-baby finish too.