Scars

Jesus restores what is broken. And even though we may have scars, the scars are not our entire story, merely part of our story. Easter isn’t just about the cross, it’s about the empty tomb.

When Jesus appeared to the disciples after the resurrection, the wounds were still on His hands and His side. He didn’t make them disappear. He didn’t make it seem as the brutality that He just went through never happened. He could have. He could have made those disappear quicker than Wolverine can heal his mutant body. But, instead, He chose to let them remain.

I have scars that remain. I have one that is on my chin. My cousin hit me with a golf club when I was a little kid. I have scars that people can’t see as well. I have scars from school, when I was always on the B team. Always there, but never visible.

I have scars from when my mom died.

I have scars from things I’ve looked at, thought, said or did.

And while I can ask for forgiveness from God, or myself, or for others, sometimes those scars remain. They don’t just disappear. They can still hurt.

And while so much of Christianity is about God forgiving and choosing not to remember, I still remember. I still know that what happened, happened.

That’s why I love that when Jesus appeared to His disciples, He still had scars. He still had nailprints in His hands. He still had a wounded side.

But those were no longer about what happened. Those wounds meant something else. Those wounds meant that Jesus’ death restored a relationship between us and God. Those wounds meant that Jesus understood brokenness, pain and more.

And they were still there. But they no longer meant that it was the end of the story. Those wounds were part of the story.

The wounds no longer have to be my story, they can be part of my story.

There’s more to me than my scars.

And there’s more to my story than them as well.