Healing takes time. And sometimes, it doesn’t look like healing at all—until one day, it does.

At the beginning of the summer, I noticed a small sore on my nose that wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t painful—just there. A quiet, irritating presence. Occasionally, it would bleed. Mostly, it was just a nuisance.

A couple of months ago, I finally mentioned it to my doctor. She sent me to get it biopsied. When the results came back showing it was a small basal cell tumor, I was referred to a specialist.

The specialist was kind and clear. He explained what was going on and told me plainly: it wouldn’t go away on its own. It needed to be removed before it grew into something more serious. So, a few weeks ago, I had it removed.

Afterward, the doctor gave detailed instructions for caring for the wound: apply Vaseline daily, keep it bandaged, and be patient. He gently warned me that it would look worse before it looked better—but that around week three or four, I’d see a noticeable change. The healing would come if I stayed faithful to the care.

So I did just that.
Every day, Vaseline and a fresh bandage.
But day after day, it still looked raw, messy—even worse than before. At one point in the fourth week, I found myself staring at it in frustration, wondering if it was ever going to heal.

And then, this morning, I took off the bandage—and almost couldn’t believe what I saw.
The wound looked almost healed.
It felt like it happened overnight.
But of course, it hadn’t.

Standing there in the mirror—yes, all up in that mirror (a post for another day on vanity, ha!)—I realized what I was looking at wasn’t just my nose. It was a living metaphor of my spiritual journey over the past few years.

There was a season—not so long ago—when I felt torn open by sin.
Some of it mine. Some of it done to me.
Either way, it left its mark.

Sin had crept in and unraveled relationships, distorted my sense of self, and created a distance I didn’t know how to close—between me and others, between me and God, even within my own heart. I became increasingly self-reliant. I didn’t know how to trust, how to need, how to receive care without flinching.

And so I isolated.
I armored up.
I decided it was safer to fend for myself.

But God doesn’t leave us in our self-protection.
He invites us into healing. And sometimes, that healing feels like surgery.

In order to restore what was broken, He had to expose what was festering beneath the surface—sin I’d justified, pain I’d buried, lies I’d believed. He didn’t come to scold or shame. He came to remove what was harming me. He came to heal.

And like that stubborn little tumor, the sin in me wasn’t going away on its own. I couldn’t fix it by trying harder or covering it up. It had to be surrendered. Removed. And then cared for tenderly, day after day.

And in this slow, imperfect, holy process—I wasn’t left to do it alone.

God gave me a husband who, with gentle faithfulness, reminds me every day to tend to what needs tending. He’s not only been my wound care accountability partner (Vaseline and bandages included), but also my encourager, reminding me to stay connected to church, to community, to the heart of God. He sees where I’m tempted to withdraw, and he invites me back to presence.

I have a son who reminds me that laughter is holy, too. Who sends jokes and memes and silly movies that tug me back into joy—and who doesn’t let me get away with shallow faith. He challenges me to really know what I believe, to own my identity in Christ, not the version others may expect me to be.

And then there are the stepkids, family, coworkers, friends—the ones who show up to love, challenge, correct, and pray. God has even given me a little dog who insists I stay tethered to affection and routine, no matter how tempted I am to turn inward.

In sermons and conversations, in unexpected moments, God keeps sending reminders of His grace. He keeps gently whispering, You’re mine. I’m not finished. Stay with Me.

And slowly, day after day, healing has taken root.
Even when I couldn’t feel it.
Even when all I saw was the wound.

This morning, as I looked in the mirror, I didn’t just see a healing nose.
I saw a woman who is still in process.
Still tender in places. Still scarred.
But also being restored—daily—by the One who knows how to bring life out of brokenness.

“I am in His hand,” He reminds me.
“And no one—no one—can take me from Him.”

That’s what I see now.
Not just a body healing—but a heart being mended, piece by piece, by a faithful God who finishes what He starts.

What a beautiful, relentless, redeeming God I serve.