I have a scar on the left side of my chest where there once was a central line that nourished me when I was too sick to eat. I have a scar in my upper right rib area that reminds me of a chest tube that once supported my collapsed lung from a procedure gone wrong. Both blemishes were the product of one pregnancy. I see those two scars every day, and for many years they were unattractive to me. Over the years, I have learned that grief has been replaced with gratitude when I notice my marks. Those blemishes are symbolic of life. My scars are the testimony of a broken story with a beautiful ending. If it were not for them, I would not have my daughter.
I was reminiscing through the memories of my scar journey this morning, and I saw a vivid image of Jesus on the cross. There he was in my picture, nailed by evil and dawning contusions that the world would deem unattractive; then this thought crossed my mind, Jesus’ scars also represent life. I am confident that He embraces His, too, because if it were not for them, He also would not have His daughter.
