Cocoons

Since my cancer, I find myself even more drawn to scriptural accounts of Christ's healing power.

Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, or leprous, or that are withered, or that are deaf, or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you; my bowels are filled with mercy.

I picture myself at the feet of the Savior. He would heal my eye. I close my eyes and try to remember what it was like to see out of both eyes. I'm starting to forget.

And it came to pass that when he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and with their dumb, and with all them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him.

 And they did all, both they who had been healed and they who were whole, bow down at his feet, and did worship him; and as many as could come for the multitude did kiss his feet, insomuch that they did bathe his feet with their tears.

Recently when I saw a depiction of Christ's marvelous healing recorded in the Book of Mormon in 3 Nephi 17, I was struck with a new thought: If Christ were here to heal me now, what growing experiences would I miss? How would my eternal progression be stunted? What would I not become?

And then I thought of butterflies and cocoons. Butterflies must struggle and work to emerge from their cocoons. But if that struggle is cut prematurely short, their wings don't have the strength to fly. They are forever stunted.

The Lord gives each of us cocoons to struggle against. One of mine is living with one eye. Like Paul, we may sometimes wish to be healed of our "thorn in the flesh". But if His perfect wisdom was overcome by His mercy and He cut our struggles prematurely short, our growth would be forever stunted. We wouldn't become what He made us to be.

Photos courtesy of Wikipedia commons