I’ll admit it: I have a few scars I like to show off. My most severe injury - a broken collar bone - did not leave an outward scar, but I can still feel the bone scar where it healed. And I can’t carry any purses on my right shoulder, they slide off, because it is sloped slightly more than my other. These are little reminders of the bike accident that caused the injury, and I like to tell the story. I like to think about the good that came out of that situation. A greater appreciation for the fragility of life - the decision to pursue more depth of relationships - and deeper gratitude for the time God has granted me.
My gnarliest scar is from a hand injury that required eight stitches. I was washing a drinking glass and it shattered. My husband and I ended up taking a late-night trip to the emergency room, and to boot, it was our fourth anniversary. That’s one I won’t ever forget.
The scars I am proudest of, though, are the stretch marks from my pregnancy with my son. That experience was by far the most painful I have ever endured; but it was all worth it. To take part in the creation and birth of a new life is nothing short of a miracle.
It didn’t strike me until yesterday how odd that all is. Lifelong mementos of potentially traumatizing injuries become, after the fact, trophies we proudly show off to others. Why is this?
I think, upon reflection, the reason we are so proud of these scars, and the reason we are so happy to show them off, is because we remember the injuries, yes, but we are proud to have come through those experiences and gotten to the other side. Take my stretch marks. I am proud of them. When I look at them, I remember a little foot being shoved into my ribs, the nausea, the sleepless nights. I remember the pain of birth, which was far worse than anything I had ever imagined (and I have a pretty high pain tolerance.) And I think about my son now, a happy, healthy three-year-old, who has no idea everything I went through to bring him safely into the world. He never will understand - fully. But that doesn’t matter. I’m glad I went through it - because of love.
Every Easter, it seems like a different aspect of the Easter story strikes me. This year, it was the story of Thomas. His doubt, and his desire to put his hands into the scars of Jesus. John writes, “A week later the disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you!’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your fingers here; see, my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.’ Thomas said to him, ‘My Lord and my God!’” (John 20:26-28).
I never really thought about it before, Jesus’ scars. But somehow, this Easter, it all came together in my mind. All the fear and terror in the Garden of Gethsemane. All the unbelievable pain and torture of the cross. In the face of it all, Jesus did not falter, though he wished there were another way. He went through with it - all of it. And then he rose again, having finished the work he was sent to do. But he wasn’t the same - he still bore those scars. Every time he looks at them, I wonder if he thinks of all the pain and suffering and trauma he endured? Or is he happy and proud and joyful, because he endured it, but it is over now, for all time? Did the scars of such unbelievable trauma, in the end become happy reminders? I am inclined to think so. I wonder what Jesus’ voice sounded like, when he appeared to Thomas that day. Somehow, I feel like it must have rang with joyous triumph. “Put your fingers here; see, my hands… stop doubting and believe.”
“[Jesus], for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising its shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:2.) Jesus went through it - and I think he’s glad he went through it - for the sake of love. What an amazing thought to reflect upon.
