My hands hurt

My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt. That was how he described what happened to him after he unwittingly did something that angered his father. Without explanation, he was taken down to the basement where his father pounded a spike into a beam and hung his son by his wrists from that spike.
Last week, I read the story of what went through that little boy's mind as he hung by his wrists, suspended over a dirty basement floor, while his father angrily denigrated him.
My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt.
That child is now in his late forties. He wrote his story sitting at a table directly above the basement where he was abused.

I had the opportunity to spend some time talking with this man today. He is an unassuming man with twinkly eyes and a warm, boyish look to him. As we spoke, I caught myself eyeing his wrists. There were no scars, no discoloration, and no evidence that he had once suffered in such a hideous manner as he had previously described. And yet, pain lurks just under the thin veneer of manly composure that he wears.

I've never been quite so moved as I was today, looking into this man's eyes, as he cheerily talked about other issues from his current life experience. He laughs easily and heartily; yet something about his demeanor seems to mourn what he once lost--a carefree childhood.
I am haunted by the mental picture I have of him, hanging helplessly in the air, confused, terrified, betrayed, in mental and physical agony. Tonight, as I sit up in bed, reviewing my conversation and impressions of him today, I pray that he will hear angel wings in the air, and feel the healing kiss of God on his face; that he will feel the soothing touch of God on his hurting hands and wrists, and know that God loves him more than life itself.