I had open-heart surgery when I was six months old. To put this in perspective, the surgery took place while my heart was roughly the size of a golf-ball.  See, I was born with a rare heart malformation called “Transposition of the Great Blood Vessels.” This meant that the two main arteries of my heart were reversed, thus changing the flow of oxygenated blood. Simply put, the flow of blood within me wasn’t going where it should be going. My heart was weak, my body was blue, and without intervention, death was certain (or in medial jargon “not compatible with life”). So, at six months of age, after a host of mini surgeries along the way, I lay butterflied on a table while giant hands folded portions of my heart upon itself.

Obviously, the surgery was a resounding success, although the lasting effects of the surgeries are many.  Most notably are the scars; I have many scars scattered over my body. I have a scar on the inside of my right elbow, and one along my right side.  Incisions were made in my groin, and I have 3 bald spots on my head. But one scar outdoes them all. The doozy is the 8-inch scar down the center of my chest. This is the one that is most evident, and most telling.

For years I looked upon my scars as evidence that I was flawed. The scars spoke uncomfortable truths about me: I couldn’t run like the other kids, I grew tired and fatigued after minor physical activity, I would never keep up with my peers, I was condemned to be chosen last for all games and come in last in races. Such realizations are haunting for an insecure boy, and no matter how many times the adults around me told me to ignore my scars, that they didn’t define me, I saw those scars more than anyone else.

Spiritual discouragement can sometimes feel like a deep cut against the well-run spirituality of our lives. Discouragement seems to highlight our inabilities, our wounds, or our scars. These imperfections, discouragement says, testify to the places where God has not been present, where God has not healed, and where the Spirit has not moved. After all, a truly spiritual person rises above the deep wounds of life, right?

But even Jesus had scars. His hands, feet, and side bore the mark of deep wounding. It is in this place of wounding that we see the full expression of redemptive love.

But have you ever noticed that Jesus still had the wounds in his resurrection? His defeat of death didn’t destroy the scars from the nails and the spear. It could have. Had Jesus desired it, his resurrection glory could have easily covered the holes in his body. But his wounds remain. Even as Jesus stands in resurrected glory, he bears the marks of crucifixion. His wounds a part of him. They are part of his risen life, and they tell the story of who Jesus is and what he has done. 

All of us bear a certain amount of wounding in our lives. We all have scars, whether they be emotional, physical, or spiritual. The wounds we carry are not contrary to our life with God, they do not betray our spiritual livelihood.  And just like the wounds of Christ, our wounds and scars tell the story of love, redemption, and re-creation. Henri Nouwen writes that “the wound, which causes us to suffer now, will be revealed to us later as the place where God intimated a new creation.”^[1] Grace bursts forth from our wounds, just as new life bursts forth from the cross.

The well-meaning advice I received as a child was wrong. My scars do matter, and they do define me. My scars are a part of my story; one that I cannot deny. But I now see that my scars don’t tell the story of my imperfection, weakness, or frailty. They tell the story of healing, incarnation, and grace.

What story do your wounds tell?  How does your wounds point you to the unconditional love of God that meets you in the place of hurt and darkness? How might your wounds point you to the incarnation, and testify that there is nothing in your life that remains unredeemed by the cross?

You decide the story your wounds tell.  May you tell the story of life, blessing, healing, and love.

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[1] Nouwen, Henri J.M. 1972 The Wounded Healer (Image Doubleday, New York) pg. 102