Scarred

It was circa 1992.

I was just a wee little munchkin of 4 or 5, and it was an evening where my family was due to be at church.

I whined and fussed that I didn't want to go because I didn't feel very good.  Instead of going to the nursery that evening, my parents brought me along with them to their class.

I kicked and squirmed on my mom's lap.  And by golly, why did this little area on the right side of my stomach itch so badly?

When my older sister rejoined us in the car for our ride home, she announced that she, too, felt horrible and couldn't stop scratching.

Thus began our two-week adventure with--what else?--chickenpox.

We have pictures of how our bodies were covered from head to toe in itchy red dots.  We played Old Maid and took at least one oatmeal bath a day.

As I got older and ventured into the realm of nursing school, I had to have documentation that I had either had or been immunized against various childhood diseases--mumps, measles, rubella...and of course, chickenpox.

Chickenpox was the only thing I had actually been infected with, not immunized against, and it took much effort and digging through old medical records to find when I had actually had them.

As I waited for the paperwork to come back from my pediatrician's office, I sat in my dorm one evening and inspected the area on the right side of my stomach where my itchy pox had begun.

You know what?

It's the only place on my entire body where there's still a mark.  From my very first chickenpox that appeared.

Hah, I thought.  Why do I need paperwork anyway?  I had the chickenpox.  I have the scar to prove it.

There's a much larger mark that appears on my right cheek--at least an inch or so long.  It caves in like a little ravine and rebels slightly when I try to cover it with powder.

It's a mark from the large cyst that adorned my face when I was 14 years old.  I suffered with it for eight months, enduring whispers, snickers, corticosteroid injections, and a long round of Accutane.

It was a painful time in my life, when everything around me told me that beauty consisted of perfect looks and popularity.

I had a cyst.  I have the scar to prove it.

Last year, our two painful losses left indelible marks on my heart.  These hurts on our hearts are the most difficult kinds of scars, aren't they?  No one else can see them, but they often mark a wound that ran much deeper than an everyday abrasion.

Just as the sight of my tangible scars on my stomach and my cheek remind me that I'm not invincible, that I'm not perfect, that I'm capable of experiencing pain, the marks left on my heart remind me daily through this pregnancy that something could happen.  Something did happen.  Twice.

I had two miscarriages.  I have the scars to prove it.

As the Lord laid this topic on my heart, I decided to do a little research to refresh my memory on the physiology of wound healing.

I looked at many sites, and although I know that Wikipedia tends to be lower on the totem pole for gathering information, I found that some of its phrases were worded perfectly enough to get my neurons surging.

Of scars, the site reads:

"A scar results from the biological process of wound repair in the skin and other tissues of the body.  Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.  With the exception of very minor lesions, every wound results in some degree of scarring (para. 1)."

The site goes on to say that scar tissue is comprised of the same material as normal skin, but it forms in a different manner, one that is of lesser quality than regular skin (para. 2).  [Info taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scar]

Scars are often deemed ugly.  They refuse to blend in with the rest of the skin, standing proudly to remind you--and perhaps everyone else--of the pain that has occurred.  And according to the information above, it doesn't even function as well as it used to!

How could it?  It's damaged.

But scars are necessary to heal.

A long, long time ago, a man by the name of Jesus was battered, beaten, and pierced for the wounds we inflict on ourselves, on others, on the Lord Himself.

He was the ultimate sacrifice for everything we do wrong.  Sweet friend, he died for you.

And when he rose on the third day, his body was so beautiful, so glowing, that many assumed he was an angel sent by God.

Death could not hold him!  He had risen!  He was healed!

But as beautiful and perfect as his body now was, his scars on his hands, feet, and sides remained.

Isn't it interesting?

God is perfect and all powerful.  He could have erased any sign of pain and affliction from the risen body of His Son.  But He didn't.

Oh, friends, whatever scars mar your body or your heart, know that they aren't kept around to keep you down.  They aren't meant to remind you of the pain.

They are meant to remind you that you are healed.

Praise God, I am.  Are you?

He knew that scars were necessary for healing.  He did the hard part.  He did the suffering.  All you have to do is run to Him.  And you, too, can experience what it's like to have a heart that is whole, that is surrendered, that is healed.

He paid the price.

He loves you.

He has the scars to prove it.

"From now on, don't let anyone trouble me with these things.  For I bear on my body the scars that show I belong to Jesus." ~Galatians 6:17