In this world's intense striving and need for perfection, physical scars are highly frowned upon. These blemishes mar the flawless bodies in which we crave to keep looking airbrushed at all times. They are viewed as showing the result of pain, an ugliness that cannot be removed nor forgotten. I however, see them differently.
To me, scars show that we have lived, that we have been hurt and that we have come through hard times, that we have made it through. They show that our skin has the possibility to be marred, showing us that we indeed are not in fact bulletproof. Oh, how sweet it the weight of bondage lifted when we stop striving to be perfect, and start seeing the scars which speak the beautiful news to us that we are not a Barbie doll, but that we are in fact alive!
These little things we deem "imperfections" are really like small dots on a map, marking where we've been, and the stops along the way from here to there. Want to get to know somebody better? Ask them to tell you about one of their scars. Each and every one has a story, no matter how small, and most connect straight to the heart. I could sit and try to tell you about myself, where I've come from and who I am, but if I told the stories behind my scars, I wouldn't need to dig much deeper to share a part of who I am with you. Scars are not skin deep, and neither are the purposes of the human heart. So here's me.
Take the simple, white inch on my right forearm for example. Simple story, but a story nonetheless. I worked at a frozen yogurt shop for a year, and they had the big wooden trash cans with the swinging little doors. I shoved some trash in, and the door swung back, scratched my arm, and left a scar. My coworkers laughed at me forever, because I tend to be klutzy at times. It makes people laugh, and it shows the roots of my identity, because I can laugh at myself freely, and not let who I am take a hit. So that tiny little scar, it shows a part of my work history and heart history.
There's a tiny mark on my right ankle. Its a scar from a razor cut. Not just any shaving mishap. A mishap caused by the unstable movement of ocean waves on a huge cruise ship. This tiny splotch holds a weeks worth of memories with my sister. Cherished memories of Caribbean islands, snorkeling, and sun tanning oil. Memories that I'll hold dear to me forever, because my sister means so much to me. She took me on this cruise, paid half my ticket, because she wanted me to go. Wanted to spend a week with ME. This scar doesn't only hold memories, it holds the fact that my sister cherishes me. She cares for me, and she would give as much as she could just to be with me, because she loves me. This scar speaks to my heart, tells me I'm important. I am cherished.
Then there's the tiny scar in my mouth-caused by the same sister. A scar that happened when I was a tiny little girl. She wanted to give me a piggy back ride, and I said "no! you'll drop me!" She insisted she'd be careful, that she wouldn't let me go. Again I refused, believing she'd let me hit the floor. Finally, she got me to concede. I got on her shoulders, and about two steps in, she dropped me. I think I passed out, and I woke up with blood in my mouth and a scar in my mouth today. What do you think that scar taught my heart at such a young age? "You can't trust anyone, not even your family. You'll be hurt no matter how much someone proclaims to love you." Now I don't blame my sister for that, no, not at all. Out of her love, she just wanted to play with me. Her dropping me had nothing to do with the enemy feeding lies to my young heart. And feed he did. That scar and lack of trust carried out the rest of my life, up until recently. And what about my sister? What was said to her young heart? Maybe it was "you're foolish, a horrible sister, you dropped your little sister, you can't ever be trusted." Lies! But heart scars, nonetheless.
Take the large white one cut into my stomach. That one hurt more. That wasn't done by accident, that was done to save my life. Wanna know that story? I'll tell you. I could have died. My appendix was inflamed, could have burst. My family waited what seemed like forever to take me to the hospital. I finally got there, and I needed surgery. I needed it as soon as possible, before it got worse or possibly burst. I was in third grade, and back then, they didn't have the same technology they have today. Today, appendix or gallbladder scars seem microscopic compared to the gash on my stomach. But this scar is special to me. It's SO much deeper than my stomach. This scar has memories of my family, my friends all around me. Stuffed animals (that I still have), flowers, presents, and cards from my entire class back at school. Memories of having to strengthen my inhaling again, and my mom holding my arm as began to try to walk again without stomach pain doubling me over. This scar speaks identity, because it speaks that I could have died, and yet God had another purpose. He wanted me here longer, had a purpose for me. It speaks of love and family, memories of my family together in unity for a single cause:me. It speaks once again that I am loved, important; cherished.
I have many scars running all over my body. Like the three inch gash I got on my calf from running through rusted barbed wire in the woods the other day. It may scar, and it may not. But the scar on my heart will always be the blessing of the joy and memory of when Papa God took me to the middle of a world of beauty, provided for me, and taught me. It will be a beautiful scar and tale of the time in my life when Papa placed me in Montana. And like all my scars, it will be special to me. I am blessed to have so many scars, because they each speak God's identity into my life. The first one, on my arm, it speaks that I am free to be me, klutz or not- I am free and loved no matter how many mistakes or mishaps I make. The mark on my ankle, it speaks that Jesus, too, cherishes me. That He would spend anything, so anything just to spend some time with me, to take me somewhere beautiful, because He simply loves me. The one in my mouth, it teaches that though trusting can be hard, its not impossible. After all, Jesus entrusted the funds to Judas, a known thief. He knew he would betray him. He trusted and loved him anyway. And the one on my stomach, it shows that I have a purpose, that I am made to do great things here, that I am not made to die under the threat of the enemy, but that I am made to be loved and surrounded by people that love me, and people I love. It shows that Papa has a plan for me.
Now, think about this. BECAUSE of SCARS we are SAVED. The greatest, most gruesome scars in history are the ones that run WAY deeper than flesh. The scars that Jesus took in his wrists, his feet, his side, his beaten back- they speak of the greatest love and grace ever shown to mankind. They speak of redemption and of our identity- that we were made to be FREE from the bondage of sin and death. That we are made to live in RELATIONSHIP with the living God of love! Without these scars, we would not have life at all. Without this sacrifice, we would be lost.
I encourage you, all of you, to take some time and think of the scars on your body. Think of the stories and the truths or lies of your identity that they may still be speaking into your life. Recognize the lies, and then, turn to the one with the deepest scars of all. The one who has the scars of love written all over his body. May His scars free and bless you for the scars in your own life. Rejoice in the ones that bring life, and rejoice in the ONE who brings life.
"Through His stripes we are healed"
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