I have promised this entry for some time and have been a little reticent to tackle such a subject. The reason is the definition of recovery as a state of being and mind is subjective. Having said that, I will give you my definition of it.
If you are familiar with the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I will use that as a vehicle for my explanation. Frodo, the main character, sits in his study writing and reflecting, reflecting and writing about his journeys. They are all over now and as he pauses he rubs his chest with a painful look. Samwise his companion comes in and asks him ‘Whats wrong?’ Frodo pauses and says, “…its been four years since Weathertop and it still has not healed…”
What is the morale of that tale? Sometimes when evil touches you, it marks you, injures you permanently. So has Frodo recovered? In some fashion I guess but the scar, the pain and the brush with evil comes rushing in at times of recollection. … and so it is with me.
I have been fundamentally altered by what I have been through. I have changed and while I am back at the Shire, there is some degree of separation from the normalcy around me. I can ignore it or even suppress it but it is there…it is the painful scar from the Morgul Blade.
I can catalog it, analyze it and explain it as I have in this blog series but there is no accounting for the taint of evil that shadows my soul. This is what haunts me. What also haunts my concern for my family still within Mordor. Are they now Gollums that are seeking after something they can not ever truly possess? Transforming from what I knew them to be to what they are now. Would I recognize them? Would I know them? Can they be known? What has happened to them? This also haunts me.
What was Frodo’s solution? It was not to be found in the shire. In fact entire Middle Earth there was no where. It was only the far away land called the white shores that could be a respite. There was no where else. He went on a last journey with his friends to the parting that is inevitable .
While we are back physically we will never be in the same mental place or surroundings. The far away hill beckons and the restlessness is a constant reminder we are all sojourners. The difference is people like me know it. What have come to realize is that I only see one footprint in the sand trail behind me and their pattern is not my own. It is smudged with blood from marks made by cruel nails. This is my comfort and my recovery, if desolation allows me the privilege of being carried by the Savior as I am too weak to make the journey to its end, I count that a blessing. It is an intimacy I could not purchase, earn or attain to. It only comes to those who are carried in such a way.
Is that recovery I cannot say. There is no raising of the sword in victory. There is only the survival of the battle and the calmness that is present by the ceased carnage around me. I am sorry that I cannot offer much more than that but what I offer is real: the faraway look, the pain of the past but in all of that the steady plodding and undulation of the One that carries me Home.
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