Beautiful Scars

When our little girl was 7, we rushed her to the hospital because she was having an appendicitis attack. It ruptured before we got there, and she was one sick little girl. Because it ruptured, they kept her a few days … and instead of getting better, she continued to get worse and worse. She couldn't walk … could barely move … her fever shot up again … she began vomiting. The surgeon told us that he needed to go in again and try to find what the problem was. So, again she went to the operating room. An abscess and blockage, removal of part of her colon, cleaning out all the infection -- and they said this time she'd be better. Our doctor told us he had been very concerned about her and that if this had happened 10 years earlier, they wouldn't have had the medical equipment and knowledge to have kept her alive. We had almost lost her. She spent two weeks in the hospital, recovering, slowly gaining her strength back. When we brought her home, she was skin and bones … but she was alive.

Fast forward 10 years and she was a vibrant, beautiful 17-year-old who hated the scar on her stomach with a passion. If she wore a 2-piece bathing suit, someone invariably commented on it. She would tell me vehemently that she thought it was the ugliest scar she had ever seen. She looked at it and saw ugly.

I saw life.

Without that scar, our little girl wouldn't be here with us today.

And I wonder. Does God look at my scars the same way? My scars might not be physical, but they're there. I, like my daughter, have hated my scars. To me, they were signs of brokenness, of failure, of defeat, of wounding. Those scars would bring up the feelings of the past, the pain of the injuries. They were the ugly in the picture of my life.

Then, it struck me one day. Maybe God looks at my scars the way I look at the scar on my precious daughter's stomach. What was heading towards certain death wound up being completely restored into life. Honestly, is there anything more beautiful than that? The scars of my life are all from painful periods that I would love to be able to erase. But life, being the way that it is, doesn't work like that.

Instead of sitting and grieving over the scars, I think God would have me look at the scars like He

does. Beauty from ashes. Dancing from mourning. Life from death. Wholeness from brokenness. Each scar that I bear reminds me of His incredible grace to me. Each scar tells me of His great love for me. He never gave up on me. He never left me alone. He transformed me, conformed me, changed me, grew me. He did what only He could do -- miracles, healing.

I also believe that God looks at the scars of His Son with tenderness, too. For in those scars, I am healed for all of eternity. In those scars, I have been resurrected and live with Him. My scars. His scars.

Beautiful, beautiful scars.