It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining and the neighborhood kids were calling. I grabbed my bike, rode down the driveway and joined them on the road in front of our home. Excitement filled their conversation as they talked about a new hideout they had discovered down the road. “Come on,” they beckoned, and before I knew it, I was riding my bike down the road on a new adventure.
We crossed the river (something I had never done before) and began exploring the other side. It was a fun day, but as evening drew nigh, we knew it was time to go home. The journey home meant I would get to join the ranks of my friends by riding my bike down a small hill. I had pushed my bike up the hill on the way over, but this time I was ready to ride.
As I started down the hill, I peddled as fast as I could, my speed grew and so did my shrills of excitement. Then all of a sudden I lost control. My body flew over the handlebars. I landed on the pavement and skidded down the hill.
My buddies stopped; jumped off their bikes and ran to my side. I sat up with tears streaming down my face and blood running down my arm. My elbow had met the pavement, and to this day, I’ve never known a worse physical injury.
All I wanted was my mom, but she was about a quarter of a mile away. My only solution was to get back on my bike and ride home.
With dusty knees, a bloody arm and a face full of tears I peddled down the road to my little blue house. I had barely made it to the front door when momma came running outside. She scooped me up in her arms, rushed inside and began cleaning my wounds.
Momma’s love bandaged my wounds and eased my pain, but it didn’t remove the haunting question in my mind.
Would I have a scar?
My cousin had had a bike wreck the previous summer and her leg, scarred from the wreckage, still told the story. At ten years of age, all I could think was, “will I be scarred for life?”
Today, I have no physical evidence of that wreck, only the memory. I wasn’t “scarred for life” as I feared, but I have picked up a few other scars.
They aren’t scars from bike wrecks or falling down; they’re scars from life experiences.
- When a father said, “I don’t want anyone to know she is my child.”
- When a blossoming friendship became a broken memory.
- When dreams crumbled and grief was palpable.
- When anxiety increased and health decreased.
These are the scars I bare today.
And, why do I love them?
Because, they remind me of God’s incredible love.
With each scar I’ve had a choice. I could focus on the circumstance and feel despair or I could focus on God who sustained me during those times. When I focus on God, I am filled with joy and courage. Remembering His love charges my faith and gives me hope for future trials.
Sweet friend, I am sure you have some scars, as well. While I wish we could make it through life scar-free, the fact is, we live in a fallen world; thus, there will always be potential for our lives to become fractured with hurt. We don’t have to live as scarred individuals. Through Jesus we can be healed and made whole. For as Isaiah 53:3-5 says:
He was despised and rejected—
a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief.
We turned our backs on him and looked the other way.
He was despised, and we did not care.
Yet it was our weaknesses he carried;
it was our sorrows that weighed him down.
And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God,
a punishment for his own sins!
But he was pierced for our rebellion,
crushed for our sins.
He was beaten so we could be whole.
He was whipped so we could be healed.
Here’s the good news: Jesus has already bore our scars on His back. We no longer have to wear their weight. Instead, we can choose to focus on Him and receive peace and rest for both now and forevermore.