With great urgency I have made an appointment to see the Great Physician. I come, bearing my hurts, but it is evident that I must take a seat in the waiting room, which in appearance resembles a prison cell - dark and sparsely furnished. I dislike waiting rooms, where I do not control the schedule. Sighing, I settle my aching body into a harshly contoured chair, arranging my burdens around me on the uncarpeted floor.

There are others in the waiting room, but I ignore them. Their annoying attempts at conversation remind me that, because of them, the waiting period will be longer than I had expected. One person has a crutch beside his chair. Another sits in a wheelchair. I mentally compare their hurts to mine and decide that my pain is most pressing.

As I become accustomed to the dimly lit room, I become aware of a pile of roughly-hewn pieces of wood in a dark corner. It seems obvious that the arrangement has fallen apart and that no one has taken the time to rearrange the pieces. I tell myself it is not my problem, but after awhile my boredom and perfectionism force me to the dark corner to straighten out the clutter. Only then do I realize that the rough pieces are the beams of a cross. I handle them with great respect, but as carefully as I try to fit the beams together and set them upright, I find that they leave splinters in my fingers.

I am frustrated by the pain resulting from my effort to do good. I look around me for a means of removing the thorns in my flesh, but nothing is in sight. I head toward my uncomfortable chair, nursing my wounded fingers. As I walk by the patient in the wheelchair, I glance at her, self-consciously. She smiles and, quickly finding the needed tool in her purse, offers help in removing the splinters. The man with a crutch pulls from his pocket some medicinal ointment that relieves the sharp sting of pain in my fingers.

The door opens, and we all look up expectantly. But it is only another patient. I find myself impatient with the increased crowdedness of the room. Suddenly a low moan from the new patient awakens me to an awareness of her pain. I recognize her urgent need to see the Great Physician. This unprecedented awareness of another’s need comes as a shock, but fills me with a sense of mission. The least I can do is give her what is left of the ointment that has been shared with me. And then I find myself offering her my place in line.

When I look up, I notice that the rough wooden beams have begun to glow. The soft, warm light draws me to the once-dark corner. This time I kneel before the cross, praying for my new-found friend. I find it hard to concentrate - a lifetime of self-absorption flashes before me - and I fall prostrate on my face.

After a time a hand draws me to my knees. Someone is standing beside the cross, holding a crutch, with one hand on an empty wheelchair. The Great Physician has been there all the time, disguised as the Wounded Healer.

And now that I have finally recognized Him, I cannot take my eyes from Him.

Let us fix our eyes on Jesus,
     the author and perfecter of our faith,
          who for the joy set before Him
                endured the cross ...
                     (Hebrews 12:2)

- Joy Jacobs