The Power To Feel

The Power to Feel

Neuropathy is a term I was blissfully unaware of a few years ago. Peripheral neuropathy meant even less to me. It’s more familiar now. Now I know that, at least in my case, it means a loss of sensation—especially in my feet—that affects me every day. Earlier this week it landed me in the shrubs by my back door after I missed the last step on a step stool. I couldn’t feel where I’d placed my leading foot, and I didn’t look. Next time I will.

In terms of walking and balance, it certainly helps to feel. But when I want to protect myself—my heart—against the stings the world quite naturally inflicts, I’d sometimes like to feel a little less. I’d like to be less sensitive to rejection or ridicule. A little less in tune to loss or loneliness. I wouldn’t mind being more numb to these things, but I have to confess that feeling them (and feeling them acutely) nurtures empathy for others who feel them too.

The power to feel is a prickly blessing. A beautiful ache. A terrible joy. A paradox. Jesus knew it better than anyone. His power to feel was infinite: “He was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

It would be unwise for me to long for more physical sensation and for less heart feeling. To want more help and comfort for myself but to offer less of the same to others. The power to feel is not a parseable gift: I don’t get to apply it where I want it and deny it where I don’t. In every case, acute feeling shapes and sharpens me and makes me better able to see the hurts of others—and the amazing love of Jesus—with brand-new eyes.

Father, sharpen—and deepen—my power to feel!

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.

2 Corinthians 1:4