When God’s Son left heaven and came here to earth, He was beaten, too. He got scars, too. And every scar tells a story. You and I are that story. It’s about how very, very much He loves you.
It was chaos when my mother’s water broke. My sister and I were due in October not July. The year was 1979 and three-month premature twins’ surviving was unheard of. After we were born, the doctor pressed my parents to make funeral arrangements for me. At one pound, ten ounces, he gave me zero percent chance of surviving. My twin sister, slightly larger at two pounds, six ounces, only had a fifty percent chance. After open-heart surgery, pneumonia, and a three-month stint in the hospital, my parents finally took us home.
The scars that adorn my wrist, ankles, and chest are reminders of my journey. We all have scars. Like me, some of you have visible scars and for others they are hidden beneath the surface. My scars have become so much a part of me that for months I forget about them. Then comes swimsuit season and my scars become so visible-it’s almost as if they have a neon sign pointing to them. It has taken me thirty-two years to go beyond tolerating my scars to seeing the beauty in them.
My inquisitive three-year old pointed to a scar one day and asked me what it was. For a moment, I hesitated, not knowing how to explain it to her, and then I responded, “Its Mommy’s reminder that God is always with me.”
My family calls me the miracle baby and when I look at my scars, I know it’s true. The only way I survived is God’s presence. I know He was there guiding the doctor’s hands as they closed the hole in my tiny heart, and He was there holding me as I lay in NICU struggling to breathe.
None of us can walk through this life unscathed. All of us have scars.
As an adult, when I look at my scars, instead of seeing the ugliness, I choose to see beauty. My scars empower me, reminding me of God’s unfailing presence in my life.
What stories do your scars tell?
By Kendra Cameron Jarvis A Busy Woman’s Life