Scars

Scars.

Where his breasts once were. 

Where the man she trusted betrayed her with his fists.

Where the tumor will most likely make its reappearance.

Where shards of glass penetrated her once perfect skin.

Where years of hard work have retired in honor.

Where her son entered the world against all odds.

Where childhood neglect has left its mark inside and out.

Where her momentum carried her farther and faster than toddler legs were able to go.

Where the drugs that hold him forge their chains.

Where she has tried to excise the loneliness and imperfection in her heart.

At birth, we receive our first scar. For most, it sits unassumingly in the center of our bodies and is rarely given much thought. It's the scars that are unique to our story that receive the attention. Some are worse than others, have been there longer, are more visible; some remind us of better days, or remind us of unbearable pain. Some are old and faded with time; others demand attention and are painfully new. Some refuse to remain hidden and somehow are made more visible by the ghoulish color of shame. 

I sat looking at my scars the other day-- the ones I can see. So many. So many imperfections and stories to tell and foolish things I've done. The scars that don't show are easily the worst. Rejection and betrayal, callousness and lies. But I won't go there. Reopen those wounds.

I wonder from time to time how God sees my scars. Does He hope I have learned something from them? Does He hope that each time I see one, I will recall the pain and deny the urge to revisit those places? or I will remember where I used to be in light of where He has brought me now? Does He wish I would just put them away and stop fixating on them? Does He even see them, or does the blood of His Son cover the reminders of a world gone wrong? Will I see hands scarred for me when we meet face to face?

My thoughts are interrupted as Luci rests her warm face on my knees. I see her scars. The things she has endured. Her fight to be absolved of the fear she once felt. She has come so far, barely raising her head when my husband vacuums or the sky thunders now. Her scars fill me with compassion for her. I want to encourage her to keep going, to tell her I will be with her, I will help her. I want to tell her there is nothing to fear, that I have scars too. I want to tell her that what others did to her was wrong, but I will lead her into making something better of it; that her scars can be proof of terrible things transformed into beauty.

And I know I have heard God speak.