"DON'T TOUCH MY HURT TOE!" I yelled to my husband while we were tubing on the Comal River last week. We were trying to keep our little party together, grabbing fingers, toes and whatever we could find to form a tubing train. I was a little jumpy about my dear toe.
I had tripped on a light saber the week before. I twisted an ankle, banged up my forearm and most likely broke my number two toe thanks to a fearless but rather careless Jedi. Doesn't he know better than to leave his weapons in the middle of the kitchen floor? Our boys had a friend over so they unpacked their arsenal of air soft rifles, swords, Nerf guns and light sabers. My toe is just another casualty of being a mother of sons. Small price to pay for getting to live with all this action!
When my husband came home, I showed him my toe. It was all black and blue and broken-looking. He was sweet and sympathetic, and I was thankful to be bruised. My toe hurt like hell. I was glad it looked just as bad. When you are hurting like that, it's nice to have something to show for it. Proof.
Back on the Comal, David gently held my foot well below that troubled toe and my thoughts floated back to the early years of our marriage. How nice it would have been to be able to show him the bruises on my soul. To be able to point and say, "I'm hurt right here, so please just stay away from this spot." It would have explained every time I jumped when he got too close.
I'm reminded by my husband's tenderness that our Savior is tender toward the broken. He sees all our bruises, even those buried deep inside. Like Isaiah prophesied "A bruised reed he will not break." I am grateful for His compassion and for the gentle way He cares for my soul.