Scars

 I well recall the first time I noticed the scar on his head. Survivor of two traumatic brain injuries. Survivor of a broken heart many times over. And I remembered the story he'd told me. Of how he'd been in a coma for five days following his last injury. Of how doctors said they weren't sure he'd pull through. Of how he did. Living miracle, that guy. And I'd thought of how this was the first time I'd seen the visible proof. But somehow, before that moment, I'd still seen the scars. Because, when you've been through a war of your own, you notice the brave marks of others. 

His scars weren't readily visible unless you got up close. And isn't that the way it is with all of us? Unless we get close, we can't fully see the marks of where we've all been? The reminders that we've come through fights that nearly took us out? 

Somehow, even though this was the first time I'd laid eyes on this physical blemish, I'd laid soul-eyes on the scars long before. So many conversations on how to find a way to live again when it's all come crashing down on your one heart. Hours of discussing what it's like to try to move on when the past threatens to hold you a permanent prisoner. And in a way, we weren't afraid. Weren't afraid of what would be shared. Weren't afraid of showing soul-scars in an attempt to heal. And while the physical wounds had long since bound together, the heart still ached. It's always the heart that takes the longest to heal. 

And perhaps why I felt such an odd comfort in these painful conversations was because I had scars of my own, and scars notice other scars. Survivors see other survivors. They grieve together what's been lost. And they celebrate second chances like nobody else because they know what it's like to nearly lose it all. They know what it's like to hurt and think you'll never love or live well again. And somehow, in this space, it's not shameful to show the scars and tell your story. Because here, life is appreciated and valued like nowhere else. And yet, why can't this happen in any space but here? 

My hands have bandaged up wounds before. Physical wounds that refused to heal. For years, I've tended to the soul-wounds of others, turning my own pain into purpose. But now I'm feeling like perhaps I need a soul-bandage as well. Hands to bind up what's broken in me. And there's only One I know who can truly do it for me. One Who isn't afraid to get close. One Who creates His own healing space because that's Who He is. Love always drives away shameful fears and let's healing happen. 

As I gazed on that head-scar of his, it made me realize that every scar has a story. We don't get this way without some journey taking us there. And yet, be they physical or emotional, we're somehow afraid to show off our brave. We're afraid to let others see us for who we truly are and where we've really been. There's a shame around being vulnerable. But are we really being true to ourselves and our stories if we hide them and never share?

Seen or unseen, no scar, no wound is ever so shameful that it cannot be mended. For this the Gospel came. For this, a Savior allowed Himself to be wounded. For by His stripes, our healing comes. Repair arrives in the breaking, the cleansing, the blood-flowing of a selfless Jesus who loved enough to let His own self have nails and a spear driven through Him so that we could taste life abundant. Knowing this, why should I hide my wounds from Him who knows what it's like to be scarred more than any other?

I have scars of my own. But I'm seeing in recent weeks that I've tried to control who sees them and when. Because I'm afraid. Once again, fear is getting in my way. Or rather, I'm allowing myself to get in my own way. To get in God's way. Because I refuse to fully disclose the story behind who I truly am and why. And yet, deep inside, there's been a stirring. A stirring to bring the feeling of comfort I've experienced in the company of survivors and the battle-tested to anyone, anywhere. Because we all carry wounds from this life. We all have marks we've acquired along our journeys. No-one gets through this world unscathed. We've all been hurt. We've all been broken. But we often try to put our best foot forward and let people see the better us instead of the real one. But we know the truth when we look in the mirror. We know the story. But in refusing to reveal the side of ourselves we're not as proud of, we can allow ourselves to be defined by others in ways that prove detrimental to our success in this life because we're keeping the full truth from people and letting them paint a picture of us that's not completely accurate. Only we hold the paintbrush...as directed by the Hand of our Creator. But we're afraid to use it. Ashamed to use it. 

What if we showed our scars more often? Would we discover that we're all more alike than we realize? Would we find out that we have more ability to inspire one another than we think? Would we see that every heart is, at it's core, made the same - with the same ability to love and be loved, to live and to grow, to hurt and be hurt, to heal and be healed, to despair but also hope? Would we find a freedom we have yet to discover if we'd simply be willing to let the ugly be exposed? To let the Healer Himself shine His light in the un-mended places and thus give us a story worth telling to a dying world? 

Author Ann Voskamp says it well when she points out: 

"Your scars are proof that you're a kind of bulletproof. Proof that He'll carry you through anything, get you through everything, so you can be stopped by nothing. Scars are proof that you can weather any storm because Jesus didn't just calm one storm but all storms, and these scars are proof that you're a kind of bulletproof because living through the hardest battles proves that you can live through any battle. Your scars - the worst nightmares that you survive - prove that you're a kind of Kevlar." 

And now I'm seeing it clear - maybe why his physical battle scar was something I told him to be proud of was the same reason why I need to do the same: if life is a battleground and, through Jesus, you become "a kind of bulletproof," I need to rip off the shirt of my shame and welcome anyone to ask me about my own sort of brave. My own soul-scar story. To bravely paint the picture of my life as it really is and let others see me in all my weakness as proof of a Grace that is greater. To let them get close and not be afraid.

And let this be a declaration for all scarred ones: your wounds are your friends. They have shaped you, changed you, marked you, re-defined you. Made you unique for the journey you've taken. And they are nothing to fear. Nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of. Because they belong to you, and they are signs of a God who didn't give up on you in your worst days. They are manifestations of Grace. So trace them. Face them bravely. Look at them squarely, and tell yourself that they make you proud to be you. Because they're the marks of overcoming. Of being loved by the ultimate Overcomer. 

I place my hand on my chest and feel my heart beating time away. His heart no longer does, and the scars are now only distant memories. But the picture remains with me and now, I feel driven like never before to let the scars show and let myself be fully known. To let my story be told and to bid fear goodbye once and for all. There is still life left in this heart of mine and an eternity yet in store for this soul where, one day, I'll live with no scars forever. And so I choose brave.

As writer Frederick Buechner once remarked, "My story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you'll recognize that in many ways, it is also yours."

Just maybe, embracing the scarred life is the secret to finding the life we've always wanted.