Hey, scar on my belly, you do not represent me. A doctor called you a “horror show” one time, but his words do not describe me. You are long and just plain ugly, but you do not characterize me.
You are a visual reminder of the war waged on me in my youth, but you do not represent me. You are simply flesh ripped apart and sewn back together by human hands. You depict a battle for my life, but I won. You are just one part of my infertility, but not the most important.
You have been with me nearly as long as I can remember, but you do not define me. I have been embarrassed of you. I have wished you away. You have reminded me of all of the pain I have been through, but you do not speak for me.
Your outward appearance does not hint to the inward conflict that has taken place physically, spiritually, and emotionally through the years. You do not speak, you do not breathe, and you do not love. You are just a symbol of a fateful moment in time long ago; a physical remnant of my life-changing event.
Hey, scars on His wrist, you represent me. Hey, wounds on His feet, you are because of me. The pain inflicted on Him should have been mine. He was scoffed at, called names, and torn apart by a battle not of His own. I have wished Him away, not trusted Him, and raged at Him; but still, His heart welcomes me.
Hey, scars on His wrist, you embody the physical, emotional, and spiritual freeing of me. His scars delineate a world not deserving of His grace. The ugliness of His death portrays the beauty of His forgiveness. His wounds speak of great passion, and His pain screams mercy.
He is the past, present, and future. He is the most important moment in time. His words were of compassion, and His breath of love.