By his wounds

The memory remains clear.  I was sitting on the elevated table covered with a sheet of thin, crinkly paper.  The man in the white coat, M.D. credentials embroidered in blue, stood in front of me.  His words left my anger boiling just below the surface.  I could feel the heat flash into my face.  The brimming tears blurred my vision before spilling onto my cheeks.  I regretted how they betrayed my sense of control.  My hands clenched the edges of the table beneath me.  My jaw was set.

He had told me it was too late in the pregnancy to turn the baby.  He was breech, and the safest way to deliver a past-due baby was by C-section.  I was given no other option.  I would have to take the scar; a scar I would wear forever because of a mistake, an oversight, a miscalculation.  I hated my lack of power.  I hated that my choice was taken.

All of my planning and dreaming of bringing a child into this world under my strength and endurance vanished.  I see my selfishness now, but in that moment, the focus of what I was losing became more important than what I would gain.

Nearly 15 years later, I bear the scar of that day.  What once was a red and jagged wound is now a thin, white memory of who I was before something I counted as precious was taken.  It wasn't the first time.

I wear scars.  We all do.  This is the nature of a sin touched world.  There are those we see plainly on one another, while others are layered too deeply inside and are only realized when we give them the freedom to move past our lips.  Some we wear because of our choices, others have found their way to us by the actions of others.

They grow into various stages of healing.  There are those that have evolved from angry gashes to shiny skin that can be gently touched with hesitant hands.  And there are those that still ache and ooze in their freshness no matter how old they are.

I look around at the wounds of this fallen world.  I do not suffer and bleed alone.  I have been hurt by sin, and my sin has also inflicted pain both to myself and others.

But there are innocent hands that reach down to lift us up, and in them I see the scars that I have created.  He was pierced because of me.  He was crushed because of me.  He was scarred because of me.  He was willing to endure humiliation, brokeness, and pain because he believed that what he gained was of greater value than the life he lost.

He carries the scars that say we were worth it.  Wonderfully, beautifully, gracefully.

Oh that my scars would sing of such love.

This is the place where we find healing; loving God, loving others, loving ourselves through the ache of loss and brokenness.  Forgiving what seems unforgivable.  Giving to God what we think we own, and trusting him to fill the places that feel empty because of it.

He's the one who rescues the broken.  This is why his name is Savior.

The choice is ours to be called Saved.

Isaiah 53:3-10


Popular posts from this blog

This is my Isaac

I once was lost

The Church will fail you