The itch under the bandage

A healing cut itches. You know that crawl under the bandage, the one that begs you to pick at it. The itch is your skin knitting shut. This craving is that kind of itch. It's loud, it's restless, and it feels like something's wrong. Something is finally going right.

Nobody who never touched nicotine walks around craving it. This pull got installed one cigarette at a time. It comes out the same way, one unanswered urge at a time. All along, the cigarette was taking. Your money, your calm, your say over your own day. It called that a break.

Give the restlessness somewhere to go. Squeeze both fists as hard as you can and count to ten. Let go. Feel the heat drain out of your fingers. Do it three times, slow. You're not scratching, and you're not sitting still either. You're riding it out with your whole body. And you're not healing alone. God is doing the knitting underneath.

Now open your hands. Warm, a little shaky, and empty. The urge showed up to be scratched, and you let it itch instead. This is what healing feels like from the inside. Uncomfortable, and working. It itched. You held. You're getting well.