W C Douglas' Notebook

 

Lessons from an Open Heart

     As I write this in early 2025, I'm reflecting on a profound journey that began in late November with triple bypass heart surgery. There's nothing quite like having your heart stopped and your chest literally opened to teach you about what matters most in life. These weeks of healing have brought lessons I never expected—about vulnerability, about community, and about what it truly means to live with an open heart in both the physical and spiritual sense.

     When surgeons open your chest, they don't just repair the physical heart—they somehow create space for new understanding to flow in. During these weeks of recovery, I've had time to think deeply about what it means to be human, to be vulnerable, and to need others. This healing process is humbling. It strips away pretense and leaves you with what's essential.

     I've been thinking about what I call "holy common sense" – that deep wisdom that often comes most clearly when we're forced to slow down, to listen to our hearts in both the literal and figurative sense. From this vantage point of recovery, I see more clearly than ever how our individual healing journeys connect to our collective need for healing.

     Just as my surgical team had to open my heart to heal it, perhaps we as a society need to undergo our own kind of opening – creating space for understanding, for connection, for seeing each other's humanity. My physical scar reminds me daily that healing, while sometimes painful, leads to strength. That being broken open isn't the end of the story – it's often the beginning of something new.

     Faith moves forward, like healing does – one small step at a time. Some days are harder than others.       Some days you wonder if you're making progress at all. But then you look back and realize how far you've come. During my recovery, I've learned that forward movement isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes it's about the courage to take one more step, to try one more time, to keep your heart open despite the pain.

     Over the years in education and ministry,  I've witnessed firsthand how hatred and division can masquerade as righteousness – even in hospital waiting rooms and healing spaces where our shared humanity should be most evident. But I've also seen the opposite: strangers becoming family, differences dissolving in the face of shared vulnerability, grace appearing in unexpected moments and from unexpected sources.

     As I regain my strength, I'm learning that true power often looks different than we imagine. It's not in never needing help, but in being humble enough to receive it. It's not in having all the answers, but in staying open to new understanding. It's not in avoiding pain, but in allowing it to transform us into more compassionate beings.

    This year stretches before us with all its unknowns. My healing journey has taught me that's okay – more than okay, actually. Life's most profound moments often come wrapped in uncertainty. What matters is keeping our hearts open, even when it feels risky. What matters is remembering we're all on this journey together.

     Looking ahead into 2025, I carry new scars and new wisdom. I've learned that healing – whether of a heart, a community, or a world – requires both courage and tenderness. It requires us to stay open even when we're afraid. It asks us to trust that light can flow in through our broken places, and that our vulnerability can become our strength.

     Here's to moving forward together with hearts open to healing, to understanding, to love. Here's to finding holy common sense in unexpected places – even in hospital rooms and quiet moments of recovery. Here's to another year of learning that our scars, both physical and emotional, can become openings for more light to enter.

     May this new year bring healing wherever it's needed, courage wherever it falters, and love wherever there's hurt. We're all healing from something. Let's do it together, with grace, with patience, and with hearts open to the journey ahead.