Bear the Scars

As a culture, I’d say we try to hide physical scars. But we all have them.

My arm still has a faint scar from that time I pulled a mirror over on myself as a toddler. And my chin most certainly has a scar from that skateboarding accident in third grade.

Some scars tell a grand story. Some a story of rescue. Some make us laugh. At some, we weep.

Johnnie’s physical body is like a roadmap of scars. Each telling of a different part of his journey. A surgery here. A repair there. A short hospital stay here. A longer one there, when nurses became like friends. I have no doubt there will be more scars along the way.

Recently, my arms bear the scars from a son who likes to grab, pinch, wound when he is frustrated, angry, upset.

It’s the most gut-wrenching thing to see your child go into a fit, unable to understand, to comprehend. And we rarely walk away without a physical mark as evidence of the battle. Though we desperately want him to understand, logic does not exist in that moment. As his mind gives way to emotion because he knows nothing else to do, we still reach in to love and protect.

Thus the scars.

I thank the Lord that these moments don’t occur daily and that Johnnie is ever-so-slowly growing in understanding, but my husband and I still bear the physical effects of stress. Both fighting for health when our bodies have been weakened by the emotional and physical demands we face daily.

Bruises and scabs and pain . . . that tell a story.

We are a culture that likes to mitigate pain and suffering. At all costs. And we hate to walk through painful things.

Even when you go to the doctor you hear the same thing a thousand times over . . . alleviate stress, get more sleep.

But sometimes that’s just not possible. Sometimes we have to walk right through the hard and painful and keep right on walking on the other side.

If we don’t care for our son, who will? Certainly, if we could take away his pain and frustration, we would. If we could make the stress go away, we absolutely would. And who doesn’t want more sleep?

So what sustains us when our stories don’t fit into the Western narrative of the good and happy life?

Grace.

One sweet lady recently told me she was “grace living” . . . one day at a time. She tenderly smiled and said, “I suspect you understand that way of life.”

Yes, I do.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

I’ve really taken a good look at my scars lately, the physical toll, and though I wouldn’t choose it, I bear up under it gladly.

I wouldn’t want anyone else loving and caring for my son. And if we have to bear the scars of loving him, we do it with everything in us. This speaks to the depth of our love for him. This love keeps us on the hard days, when it’s loud and ugly. It helps us see through his fear and anxiety to the other side.

I can’t help but think, if I feel this way, how much more did Christ feel this? I am but a human, limited and flawed. He, being perfect in every way, willingly walked into pain and suffering . . . because of His great love for the Father and for us.

Just look at the imagery of Isaiah 53:

He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows,
acquainted with grief,
bore our griefs,
carried our sorrows,
pierced for our transgressions,
crushed for our iniquities,
upon Him was our chastisement,
wounded,
the iniquity of us all was laid on Him,
oppressed,
afflicted,
led to slaughter,
crushed,
put to grief,
anguish of soul,

The whole chapter ends with, “Shall the righteous One make many to be accounted righteous, and He shall bear their iniquities . . .”

The righteous One bearing the iniquity of the unrighteous.

Through grief, sorrow, anguish, affliction, death.

Though a one-time event in history, He still bears the scars. When the disciples saw the resurrected Christ, they saw the marks on His hands, His feet, His side. And the perfect Lamb in Revelation still looks as though He was slain. Visible reminders of all that He bore.

“The resurrected Christ, God’s mighty Son, is recognized as a deity whose hands, feet, and side bear the visible wounds of grace. For all of eternity, those wounds will call to mind our Saviour’s great mercy and loving-kindness. And we will praise Him again and again.”

Joni Eareckson Tada, Heaven

He bears the scars of His great love. He loved that much. Enough to walk right up to the cross and through it to the other side. Victorious.

What is our small and finite suffering compared to Christ’s? If you bear scars, rejoice! Let your scars point you to Him. His story, a story that doesn’t end with scars, but life. Resurrection.

Each day that I bear a scar on my arm or feel faint, my heart is drawn upward. To worship Him. The One who though He is alive, still bears the scars as evidence of His love.

So today, I choose Christ, who is more gain than anything this world has to offer.

I count all a loss, as though rubbish, because knowing Him is infinitely more valuable.

To know Him in His sufferings. Scars and all.

To be like Him in death. A thousand times over.

To attain the resurrection from the dead. By any means possible.

Philippians 3:8-11

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