It was the Saturday before my first day of middle school. I was scheduled to babysit for a family from our church. When I arrived, the couple was finishing up a few last minute details. Their youngest son looked up at me and asked, “Do you want to see my dog?”
Without thinking twice, I said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
Never one to shy away from any animal, I went right up to the dog. What happened next was a blur. I remember bending over a bit when all of a sudden the dog lunged at me. When I picked up my head, I instinctively covered my face with my hands. The young boy, horrified, yelled, “My dog bit you,” and ran inside.
I stood there covered in blood.
The boy’s mother, a nurse by trade, ran outside to see what had happened. She took one look at me and ran back inside to grab clean towels and ice. I was in no pain, but I could see that everyone around me was visibly upset which made me quite uneasy. In a few short minutes, the young boy’s dad was driving me to the hospital.
The thirty minute drive seemed like an eternity. Few words were exchanged. However, I do remember the father repeatedly stating that he hoped that my nose was not broken. Not terribly comforting words.
Upon arriving at the emergency room, I was sent directly in to see a doctor. My mother would arrive shortly after. She came into the room and asked me to remove the covering from my face. I did, and she promptly asked me to cover it again.
We waited for quite a while in the emergency room that evening. A plastic surgeon was called. I remember his name, Dr. Tuckman, which I thought was a rather funny, yet appropriate name for a plastic surgeon. He was wonderful. He was incredibly calm and had a soothing voice. I remember him looking at me in the face, something that most had evaded doing that evening. He had an incredible bedside manner. He spoke very plainly and tenderly to me. He assured me that he would work carefully and slowly to piece me back together. He commented that once he had completed his work, there would definitely be some pain and my face would look beat up, but I needed to trust him. He knew what he was doing and with time the scars would fade.
I would come to find out that my nose was severed in two, punctured, and torn.
I remember going home that evening and heading off to bed in silence. The following morning I examined myself in the mirror and cried. My face was discolored and swollen with lines of black stitches all over. I was a mess.
With time, I began to heal. The swelling and discoloration subsided, and eventually all of those stitches were removed. What was left was nothing short of amazing. Eventually my scars were undetectable to the casual observer.
I imagine that most of our bodies bear a scar or two, and each of them has a story to tell. Some stories are painful, others humorous. Some traumatic, others a badge of honor. Scars are evidence of both the pain our bodies have experienced and the healing that has taken place with time. It is interesting how the two are married, how pain and healing work together hand-in-hand. While scars typically fade with time, they never completely disappear. There is always a remaining bit of evidence of past pain.
Not all scars are the same. While some scars are obvious and out in the open for all the world to see, others are nearly undetectable or completely hidden from view. Many people bear their scars alone or in secret: The scars of wrong choices, missteps, and foolishness; at innocence lost, of sickness, of loved ones gone too soon; of harsh, cutting words, of disappointments, rejection, and failure. Some scars cut down deep into one’s soul and change the very fabric and make up of who we are. They shake our very core and change the course of life.
Most of us likely bear both types of scars.
There are so many people with a story, so many people whose scars speak. So many people who have experienced hurt. So many people who still look for healing from their scars. For some, healing is elusive. Many look for ways to soothe the hurt, to cover the pain, to forget it all together.
During this Easter week, I am reminded of how true and lasting healing is possible. There is one set of scars that heals.
I can’t help but reflect on the ultimate story of pain and healing; the most powerful story found in the scars, the story of my Lord. The Easter story doesn’t begin with Easter or Christmas, it begins before time. Our Lord knew our desperate need; He was keenly aware of the separation that sin would cause between our Heavenly Father and His people. In His infinite love He sent His son to be born a man with the sole purpose of dying to redeem me. Me…an undeserving, sinful soul, in need of a way to Him.
So Christ bore my sin on the cross. He was wounded for my transgressions. He was beaten and scarred and became a vessel for the Lord’s wrath, all to pay the penalty of my sin. All for me…for you…because of love. Through His scars we can experience true healing, healing from our sins. His sacrifice has loosened the chains that bind us, has bridged a great chasm, has restored us, has healed us in the truest sense of the word. His resurrection defeated sin and Hell.
Would you consider who Christ is this Easter? Would you contemplate those scars and the story they tell? Do you search for healing? You need not look any further than Christ.
But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5
Life in the Van 