The massage table

I was enduring another massage.  Oddly enough, I look forward to these appointments; previous times are awash to my mind.  Sort of like with getting pregnant again.  It all starts out serenely enough.  Lights dimmed, table heated and cozy, blankets a comforting caress to my exposed body.  Nature and instrumental sounds waft soft and low in the background.  Thankfully the ambience is soothing because nothing from this point on is.  She sometimes starts with my neck, just to get things warmed up.  But today she goes right to my shoulder.  I compare myself to a prisoner-of-war.  Guards trying to get me to talk.  As if she’s been mulling over how she can stretch and contort my body in unusual and bizarre ways.  And yet I trust her implicitly.

As she instructs me to crane my neck, to sit up, lie back down, hold up my arm, move it side to side or up and down, I’m compliant. I feel as if she’s digging her sharp talons into my soft arm, yet we talk as we work.  I ask her about all of it.  Why, what’s happening, what will this do.  She holds the muscles tight in place in her firm grip as I maneuver my arm through various positions.  She presses on the most tender spots—she knows just where to find them.  I feel like crying.

The first time we worked together I did.  She talked to me about it, thinking I was letting go of all my stress; massages have that effect on people, it’s normal she told me.  But it wasn’t anything like that.  I don’t need a massage to let things go, I feel like I’m pretty open about things, I’m not afraid to cry or be vulnerable.  No, I felt my hot tears spring up when I asked her if there was any hope or was I too far gone to be healed.  She assured me that even in my case, where my shoulder has deteriorated over the past year, we could work through this.  I was hesitantly ecstatic, overcome with emotion.  I relayed how sore it had been for so many months, nothing else had worked, was she sure.  She assured me again, yes.  We can fix this.  I cried and cried.  So grateful for a glimmer of hope, that she believed I could get back my normal range of motion, that my pain would subside.  That I could really be whole again.

But normally I don’t cry when we’re working. I laugh as I tell her how sore it is.  I squirm.  I pull away.  I compensate by lifting my shoulder.  I’m not afraid to tell her it hurts, that I’m not sure this is working.  She talks me through it.  “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have your arm.”  She says some people never come back.  It’s too hard, too painful.  I was incredulous because I couldn’t think of where else they would go.  I’ve tried other remedies.  I’ve tried working it out on my own.  They’ll just flounder, it will get worse.  Until they realize they should never have left.  I told her how much I trust her.  That I know the pain is an investment.  That, as distressing as our sessions are, I can see the incremental improvements.

I asked about the clients she has, if everyone has some kind of pain.  I wondered if all this work was taking a toll on her own body.  But her physical pain is nothing compared to what her soul is going through, she confessed.  We talked about her advice to me and others, “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have it.”  She admitted how difficult it was to look in the mirror.

As she jostled and pressed on me, I started to appreciate the parallels in our lives.  I knew, even as I asked, that of course we all have pain we’re living with, that we mask or ignore, that we hope will go away on its own.

I think about what it took to even consider going in for a massage for my shoulder the first time.  I figured I could handle it on my own, it would eventually get better, would anything really work after all I’d tried?  I imagine others feel the same as they deliberate about returning to church and to God.  She talked about the regrets she has, all that she needs to ask forgiveness for.  I understand, Why didn’t I pay attention?  Why have I waited so long?  I feel so embarrassed, so much guilt for my indiscretions, regret that I didn’t make it a priority sooner, wistful about lost time.  Arms and souls, we can all relate.

I consider how tranquil both her massage room and church are.  Environs conducive to change.  Music soft, words encouraging, being tended to.  I feel warm and cocooned, safe in expressing myself, admitting how hard it is.  But knowing I’m in just the right place to get the help I need.  Where else would I go?  I’ve tried it on my own.

I contemplate the exercises I’m doing at home.  At first it was all such an inconvenience, I wasn’t as compliant as I needed to be, it was kind of shaky, I didn’t see much improvement.  And so my motivation was low.  But I’ve stuck with it.  Though so imperfectly and inconsistently.  Over time however, along with my massage sessions, I’m noticing that I’m slowly making progress.  I think how uncomfortable it is for some to go back to church, how hard it is to remember to pray and read.  But like my wand maneuvers and nightly rice bag, these habits also become second-nature the more we do them, even if we’re rocky and haphazard at first.  Little by little we come to value them and rely on them to strengthen and restore us.  We’ve seen the difference small and simple things make.

I think about how painful these sessions are.  Pocked with moments of sheer gratitude and optimism.  I think we’ve all been there.  Quiet times with ourselves, candidly evaluating where we are, admitting we’ve got some work.  But at the same time, we can’t deny that we feel a ray of hope.  That maybe we can become whole again.

I think of the massage table as an altar.  Where we finally let go. Soften. Take a deep breath.  And let God take it.  Where we finally and humbly acquiesce and release all we’ve been holding on to.  Trusting that it’s all for our good.

“The submission of one’s will is really the only uniquely personal thing we have to place on God’s altar. The many other things we “give,” brothers and sisters, are actually the things He has already given or loaned to us. However, when you and I finally submit ourselves, by letting our individual wills be swallowed up in God’s will, then we are really giving something to Him! It is the only possession which is truly ours to give!  Consecration thus constitutes the only unconditional surrender which is also a total victory!” (Neal A. Maxwell)

And so as both I and my massage therapist friend figuratively lay our troubles on the altar, I’m confident that we will both sigh with relief and celebration as we feel more and more like ourselves, unimpeded by the pains we’ve carried for so many months, victorious.  Whether we are restricted by tight muscles or a hard heart, the healing is the same.  Believe you can change.  Do your part.  Let it go.  Soften.  Take deep breaths.  Have faith that all the pain, the discomfort, the stretching will be worth it.  Trust the Healer’s hands.