See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; Isaiah 49:16
The other day I was examining and contemplating the scars I have on my body. I was able to remember where and when and with whom I was at the time of each wound resulting in a scar.
Scars are proof of healing.
Like the dimple-like scar on the top of my left foot at the base of my middle toe where I dropped (wince) the pig pen gate on it, and it just happened to have a rusty old nail sticking down out of it. I was doing chores with my brothers at the time.
Like the little scar I have on my left thumb. I sliced it (wince) when cutting corn off the cob while helping my Mom harvest sweet corn to put in the freezer.
Like the half inch scar on the very top of my right knee from rolling down a hill at my cousin Julie’s house. I sliced it (wince) on a piece of glass laying hidden in the grass at the bottom of that hill. I remember her older brother, Gary, tenderly and compassionately cleaning it and bandaging it for me.
Like the quarter-sized, sea-shell shaped scar under my left knee that I got when I tripped on the brake line of my bike and fell (wince) on a great big stone while having a blast riding with my neighbor/friends, Doug and Dawn.
Like the inch scar on the front of my lower right leg that I got when I was contentedly playing on the front porch with my childhood best friend, Stacy. I picked up a glass jug that had ice in it. It shattered and a shard of glass sliced open (wince) my leg.
Like the scar I have on the back of my right hand in that soft tissue between the thumb and index finger that I received from burning myself (wince) on a hot oven shelf while catering a meal for a client.
Like the pinky finger on my right hand. It has a permanent bend in the joint from scarring of the tissue I received when I dislocated (wince) it sledding with my son a couple of years ago.
Like the 2 inch gash (wince) on my breastbone that daily stares at me in the mirror from the mediastinoscopy I had last winter which helped the doctors diagnose the sarcoidosis I am afflicted with.
I’ve noticed that as I get older (wince) the scars seem to get bigger.
There is one thing that most people, I’m sure, recognize as they remember their scars. That would be the pain (wince) associated with each wound.
When I ponder those scars a little longer do you know what I remember? The precious people I was with when I received those scars; my brothers who have all grown up and had their own families, my Mother who died (wince)when I was 19, my cousins who I rarely (wince) if ever, see, my neighbors who moved out (wince)of the neighborhood, my childhood best friend who I just recently connected back up again with on facebook, the clients I held dear to my heart during my 20 year catering career, my precious son whom I never ever regret spending time with, and my family and gifted health care providers who surrounded me during all of my surgeries (wince)and health tests.
It (living life) was worth every scar.
Do you think when we are all gathered together on that Last Day Jesus might just look at his hands and feet and side, think about the scars on his back and head, and say the same thing?
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:5
He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. 1 Peter 2:24
Thank you for my scars, but most importantly, thank you for yours.