I read recently about a family therapist who got a call from a fifty-four year old woman whose marriage was crumbling because of her obsessive collecting of stuffed-puppy dolls. The walls of her house were lined with shelves, and every square inch of space was occupied by every variety of stuffed puppy available. The woman's normally sedate and long-suffering husband had finally had enough and wanted a divorce. She came to the therapist in desperation looking for some way to stop her compulsion.
The therapist was able to help her trace the problem to an almost forgotten event that had happened to her as a four year old. She had a stuffed-puppy doll, Patches, that she loved above all other things. She took it with her everywhere. It was tucked lovingly under her arm at play and occupied the place of honor on her pillow each night. Too much love and attention had patinaed the dog doll with dirt and fraying threads and the little girl's father tried and tried to get her to part with her pet, but her heart wouldn't let go. Finally, in a fit of anger and frustration, he tore the pet from her hands, ripped it's head off, and threw it in the trash, as his little daughter screamed in anguish for him not to hurt her beloved.
He thought she would quickly forget the stuffed pet and move on. He thought the hurt would quickly heal. But the crying didn't stop for days. He finally tried buying her a new Patches, but the child would accept no substitutes. After many nights the crying gave way to quietness.
Fifty years later, unhealed wounds were still hurting her. Fifty years later she was still looking for what she lost.
Very sad, I know, but how revealing. How many wounds do I have that still cause me pain? That still cause pain to those who love me? How have I wounded my children? Yet "love covers over a multitude of sins." I'm sure we equally bear the marks of forgotten kindnesses and kisses. I must examine my compulsions with more experienced eyes and bind up the old wounds.
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