I'm a scarred person.
I've got a number of scars that tell a lot about my life.
One on my leg from a dog bite back when I was in elementary and tried to intervene in a dog fight between my pet and another dog.
I've got a scar above one of my eyebrows from getting chicken pox as a child.
I've got another one in the palm of my right hand that looks about the shape of a match head. Got that one from trying to put out a fire that was begun with a match, funnily enough. I was a kid and panicked. But the fire was put out... no harm done. Just a reminder of that left on my hand for the rest of my life.
Oh and I've got scars from a couple of minor surgeries for hernias and such.
And a really big one from three dear children who were all c-section deliveries.
Not to mention a lot of old leftover stretch marks...
And then, I've got a very bothersom and obvious scar on my left arm.
It's near the wrist and continues down near a vein for about three inches.
It still bears the marks of the stitches on either side of the cut, looking rather like a mini stretch of abandoned railroad tracks.
Draws a lot of attention sometimes.
People comment on it because it's so easily detected.
It has faded more and more, so it's not as discolored and glaringly noticable as it once was.
But it's also a reminder of a time in my life when I had no joy.
No hope.
I could find no reason worth living, and this is why I have the scar today.
And it really used to bother me.
I was so obsessed with being perfect.
Looking like everyone else.
Wishing I did not having a huge scar reminding me of the old hurts and horrors of my past.
It was like a reminder of my failure in the past.
I failed to realize the gift of life I was given and that this life is really not mine to end, but it is my duty and my constant assignment to serve the One who loved me enough to save me and give His own life for my salvations.
I find myself facing a number of old scars inside myself too.
I'm scarred both inside and out...
Scars of being abandoned, scars of being hurt physically, emotionally, or attacked verbally. Scars of abuse. Scars of loved ones who died due to suicide leaving an open ended question that can never be answered.
Scars of all the little hurts from my past that left me hurting and wounded and afraid to live because I knew the weapons out there would only cut deeper wounds if I dared to move again.
But these scars and wounds heal in time.
Some leave more of a visible mark than others.
Some are mere ghosts of what they once were.
Each one has a reminder. A history of life, be it a good time or a struggle.
Each scar has a significance behind it telling a story of my little life and bears witness to the events of what I've lived through and overcome.
So why allow myself to view them as something wretched?
Why the wish to be free of them and look like everyone else?
I don't know what it is in our human nature that makes us want to be accepted because we're just like the other person beside us.
It's not something we SHOULD wish for.
And when I think of all my scars I count them as nothing in comparison...
with the One who has two nail scarred hands
two nail scarred feet
scars upon His sacred brow where the thorns pierced his innocent skin
scars upon His back where he was scourged, whipped, beaten in my place
and the deep scar in his side, thrust through by the sword of a soldier.
Scars of love.
Scars of life.
Scars that tell the most wonderful story in all of eternity.
Scars that mean I can live with Him eternally, accepted and loved by the one who gave the ultimate sacrifice for human kind.
Scars that should have been mine, but for His saving grace alone that bore my own sin and shame to the cross.
And when I think of His scars, I don't despise them or wish they weren't there.
I am drawn to tears to think of them.
For by One man's scars, I am made whole again. By His scars I am given new hope and a new life.
By His suffering, I was able to cross the bridge over the great divide between man and his Maker.
I am able to be a part of God's family because of the sacrifice made by the bearer of those scars.
No scars?
No thank you.
I'll keep my scars... they too tell a story.
A story of grace, hope, love, faith and redemption.
A story of my feet walking down that path before me.
Tells of the times I fell. The times I got back up again and kept walking.
The times I faced an enemy and maybe got bit in the leg by a dog.
And the times I fought off all the fiery arrows of the enemy and prevailed.
Let me wear my scars in honor of Him who bears the scars for me.
Mine may not be the scars of saving another's life, but they are the scars that remind me where He has been faithful to save me again and again.
I found this beautiful poem written long ago by a faithful missionary, Amy Carmichael.
I think it is very, very fitting.
NO SCAR?
Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.
Hast thou no scar?
Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?
No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.
But thine are whole; can he have followed far
Who hast no wound or scar?
BY AMY CARMICHAEL,
IRISH MISSIONARY TO INDIA FOR 55 YEARS
I've got a number of scars that tell a lot about my life.
One on my leg from a dog bite back when I was in elementary and tried to intervene in a dog fight between my pet and another dog.
I've got a scar above one of my eyebrows from getting chicken pox as a child.
I've got another one in the palm of my right hand that looks about the shape of a match head. Got that one from trying to put out a fire that was begun with a match, funnily enough. I was a kid and panicked. But the fire was put out... no harm done. Just a reminder of that left on my hand for the rest of my life.
Oh and I've got scars from a couple of minor surgeries for hernias and such.
And a really big one from three dear children who were all c-section deliveries.
Not to mention a lot of old leftover stretch marks...
And then, I've got a very bothersom and obvious scar on my left arm.
It's near the wrist and continues down near a vein for about three inches.
It still bears the marks of the stitches on either side of the cut, looking rather like a mini stretch of abandoned railroad tracks.
Draws a lot of attention sometimes.
People comment on it because it's so easily detected.
It has faded more and more, so it's not as discolored and glaringly noticable as it once was.
But it's also a reminder of a time in my life when I had no joy.
No hope.
I could find no reason worth living, and this is why I have the scar today.
And it really used to bother me.
I was so obsessed with being perfect.
Looking like everyone else.
Wishing I did not having a huge scar reminding me of the old hurts and horrors of my past.
It was like a reminder of my failure in the past.
I failed to realize the gift of life I was given and that this life is really not mine to end, but it is my duty and my constant assignment to serve the One who loved me enough to save me and give His own life for my salvations.
I find myself facing a number of old scars inside myself too.
I'm scarred both inside and out...
Scars of being abandoned, scars of being hurt physically, emotionally, or attacked verbally. Scars of abuse. Scars of loved ones who died due to suicide leaving an open ended question that can never be answered.
Scars of all the little hurts from my past that left me hurting and wounded and afraid to live because I knew the weapons out there would only cut deeper wounds if I dared to move again.
But these scars and wounds heal in time.
Some leave more of a visible mark than others.
Some are mere ghosts of what they once were.
Each one has a reminder. A history of life, be it a good time or a struggle.
Each scar has a significance behind it telling a story of my little life and bears witness to the events of what I've lived through and overcome.
So why allow myself to view them as something wretched?
Why the wish to be free of them and look like everyone else?
I don't know what it is in our human nature that makes us want to be accepted because we're just like the other person beside us.
It's not something we SHOULD wish for.
And when I think of all my scars I count them as nothing in comparison...
with the One who has two nail scarred hands
two nail scarred feet
scars upon His sacred brow where the thorns pierced his innocent skin
scars upon His back where he was scourged, whipped, beaten in my place
and the deep scar in his side, thrust through by the sword of a soldier.
Scars of love.
Scars of life.
Scars that tell the most wonderful story in all of eternity.
Scars that mean I can live with Him eternally, accepted and loved by the one who gave the ultimate sacrifice for human kind.
Scars that should have been mine, but for His saving grace alone that bore my own sin and shame to the cross.
And when I think of His scars, I don't despise them or wish they weren't there.
I am drawn to tears to think of them.
For by One man's scars, I am made whole again. By His scars I am given new hope and a new life.
By His suffering, I was able to cross the bridge over the great divide between man and his Maker.
I am able to be a part of God's family because of the sacrifice made by the bearer of those scars.
No scars?
No thank you.
I'll keep my scars... they too tell a story.
A story of grace, hope, love, faith and redemption.
A story of my feet walking down that path before me.
Tells of the times I fell. The times I got back up again and kept walking.
The times I faced an enemy and maybe got bit in the leg by a dog.
And the times I fought off all the fiery arrows of the enemy and prevailed.
Let me wear my scars in honor of Him who bears the scars for me.
Mine may not be the scars of saving another's life, but they are the scars that remind me where He has been faithful to save me again and again.
I found this beautiful poem written long ago by a faithful missionary, Amy Carmichael.
I think it is very, very fitting.
NO SCAR?
Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.
Hast thou no scar?
Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?
No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.
But thine are whole; can he have followed far
Who hast no wound or scar?
BY AMY CARMICHAEL,
IRISH MISSIONARY TO INDIA FOR 55 YEARS
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