December 31, 1999 – I can’t say it was a day like any other day, because it was different.
I’m sure it was hot, though not unbearable, just as usual. I’m sure it was dry, though not parched, just as usual. And I was carefree and careless just as usual.
I was 7 years old, and the turn of the century is hard to forget. Late afternoon, the party hadn’t started yet, so I was outside with my sister playing with the dogs at our friends’ house. I bent over to pet the pretty Springer Spaniel on the head, a moment later I was screaming and hardly knew why. Nothing hurt, but I tasted blood. I ran to my Mum crying. My poor Mum hardly knew what to do with me, I’m sure. I remember sitting, inconsolable, on her lap in front of a mirror amazed at the bright red bite on my face. After cleaning me up a bit, Mum took me over to the dispensary next door. I got several stitches right below my right eye, where the dog’s teeth narrowly missed a few very vital nerves.
The blood in my mouth was apparently from where the lower mandible of the canine had efficiently removed one of my baby teeth. We tried to find the tooth later, and couldn’t, but that didn’t matter. The tooth fairy must have found it anyway because she gave me extra change for that very special tooth.
Now think of this, a seven year old girl, barely even old enough to say she’s lived, now has a very prominent, red mark on her face. A mark that may fade in a few years, but will never go away. When a few years is a matter of a life time, how does she cope with this new, constant factor? My big brother stepped in and rescued what could have been a very ugly situation; he told me that he liked my scar. He told me that it was cute, a beauty mark. He said he loves how it turns red when I blush, and how unique it is. He said it was beautiful.
Fast forward a few years to high school. Situations, opportunities, stakes, and hormones are all on the rise, and heart break strikes hard. I feel betrayed, abandoned, misunderstood, helpless and lonely. I see mistakes and wonder how my heart will recover at all, let alone be lovely again. My brother steps in again tells me he is proud of who I am becoming. He says he sees the pain I’ve been through, how it is shaping me, and the mark that life has left on me. He said it was beautiful.
Beautiful Scars? And that got me to thinking. Scars tell stories – stories of suffering, stories of trial, stories of pain, stories of triumph, stories of survival. Every story leaves it’s impression, a bookmark in history. I am drawn to think about the most beautiful scars history has ever known.
Jesus Christ was crucified over two thousand years ago. When Jesus resurrected from the dead, His scars were raised with Him (John 20:24-29). Isn’t it interesting that Jesus God Himself did not choose to erase the memory of suffering? Instead Jesus’ scars stand as a physical testament to the greatest trial, greatest pain, and greatest triumph known to man! Jesus walked through death, and survived. Those priceless, timeless, beautiful scars speak forever the truth that Jesus shed His own blood to pay the just consequence of MY sins. Beautiful scars say that I am forgiven. I live today confident in the hope that I will one day see those heart breaking, earth shaking, breath taking scars.
Beautiful scars are the theme of my life. I can continue through the good times and the bad times, the easy times and the hard times, knowing that I am under the care of the God who specializes in making ugly things beautiful.