scars

Isn’t it interesting that The Resurrected Jesus appeared with scars, not physically healed, but with evidence; with scars of the crucifixion and torture that had broken him, and literally broken his heart. These scars confirmed to his disciples that he was who he said he was. (Luke 24:39 below, also John 20:27)

“See my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Touch me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.”

I would like to explore this further in connection with the idea that Oswald Chambers planted about being thankful for broken hearts, because we are so selfish about our broken hearts. Why me? Why us? etc. Not that it’s bad to grieve, I’m not speaking about that at all. Grieve we must. But we must move from that point and recognize that life is not all about us and that God can use our brokenness, and that he can use us in spite of our brokenness. But aren’t his (Chambers’) words just beautiful? Please go back and read that quote.

If God can accomplish His purposes in this world through a broken heart, then why not thank Him for breaking yours?

Why do we try so hard to ignore our broken hearts?
or worse, why do we walk around with our broken heart as our identity?

Why do we try to hide our broken hearts?
Why do we try to act like we are whole? Sure we can be healed, but there will still be scars.

Why are we so AFRAID to reveal our SCARS?

I am proud of my scars. My battle scars reveal & remind.

When I was 5 years old I was living it up as an MK in a 1 bedroom hut with a cement floor, thatched roof, complete with outdoor plumbing (squatty potty).  One day I was happily playing outside in the dirt with toy weapons made out of bamboo.  I had sharpened a bit of bamboo into a “toy” knife, with a sharp tip, and somehow it made it’s way into my leg. (You know, typical youngster mischief). Afraid that I would be in trouble, I hid the wound by wearing tights, despite the humid tropical weather.  Not surprisingly, the wound became infected and we had to use a very hot washcloth as a compress to draw out the infection, which ended up being worse punishment than anything else would’ve been.

To this day, I still have that scar, and I proudly tell my story, when the occasion calls for scar stories.

Would it be so bad if more of us shared our scars, instead of hiding them under a veil of secrecy?

I think scars make us more human.  Everyone has them. Stop covering them with opaque pink tights on a hot, humid summer day.

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