After a few unexpected rounds with a rare and very feisty bacteria, I was left with an awful-looking survival scar.
Thankfully, it is in a place that is easily concealed.
I have mixed feelings about that scar. Every time I see it, I wince. My mind is immediately flung back to a year ago when an innocent pass of my hand encountered what I thought to be an innocuous mosquito bite.
The next six weeks would tell me otherwise; surgery, seemingly unending doses of antibiotics, an unfamiliar and rebellious stomach, special baths, awkward and painful dressings. Ugh! I shudder to remember.
Whenever my finger unexpectedly brushes over the tightly-puckered skin, I feel ugly.
My daughter however, is fascinated with the scar. She checks on it ever so often, almost reverently she reaches out to touch it.
“Ewwww! Why?” I asked her.
Her response floored me.
“Because it tells a story Mommy,” was her simple answer.
Immediately, I felt ashamed.
I remember the initial feeling of relief when it appeared that we had finally won the battle. I remember my fervently-whispered, “Thank you God!”
But I have been so focused on the awful experience that I’ve failed to praise God whenever I see that scar; I fail to celebrate the story behind the scar – the story of God’s saving grace in my life.
Many years ago, Jesus endured an awful experience for you and for me.
I think He would have gotten some pretty ugly scars.
When you get to see His scars, will you shudder with revulsion?
Or will you ask to run your hands along the puckered skin, in awe of the story behind the scar?