Comparing Scars

I remember sitting on the front step with my buddy, Rodney. Our bikes were leaning against the house, caked in mud. He had a “Don’t Tread on Me Flag” mounted behind his seat. I had a stick mounted on my handlebar like a spear. We picked at our scabs and talked about our adventure for the day. We wore our hats backwards and burned ants and threw rocks at jars for target practice.

He stuck his knee out and traced a two inch scar with his finger. A grin spread on his face, “Cool, huh?” Last year, he had jumped from a back deck and landed on a piece of metal. He wanted to forget the tears and cries for his mother and the wincing at the doctor’s office. Now, it was a badge of honor.

The only scar I had was on my scalp. When I was nine, I was in a car wreck and went through the windshield. I was angry that the long gash was covered by thick head of hair.
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I’m older now and I’ve accumulated some other scars. An elbow surgery, a nasty fall from a rock, and a wild wallboard knife all cut deep into my flesh, leaving marks. And there are those hidden scars — Angry stares from those who once cared for me, friends who turned their back, and a love who chased after foolishness

There are the scars I have accumulated, and those that I have imposed on others. I have my share of selfishness, painful words and deceit toward others. I have hurt more than a few, and some for a lifetime.

When I am alone, I run my fingers along those scars, recounting the moment of the cut, remembering the searing pain and the long recovery. I hurt for those I’ve hurt.

For a long while I thought my scars would keep me from ever being complete. I thought a true man of God would have lived his life in such a way to keep away from such things. Never going too close to the edge, there are those who have endured a lifetime with no marks. Not me.

I find comfort in Paul, who was a biblical bad dude. A political and religous powerhouse, he wanted to eliminate Christians from the Jewish culture. From house to house, he pursued them. His driving passion was to dismantle and extinguish this Jesus talk. Until he was stopped in his track, confronted with truth and the fire was lit.

He had some scars to show and plenty that he had caused. He rolled up his robe and pointed to the scars, one by one. Showing off his cred, he almost bragged. “I don’t deserve any of this.” That’s how I feel, too.When I compare my life to his, I guess I’m pretty good. But that’s not the point. It never was.
“But by the grace of God’s, I am what I am,” he writes. “His grace toward me was not in vain.”

If I laungish in the muck and the mire, I’m telling God that his mercy simply isn’t enough. I’m overriding his grace. It’s the ultimate act of pride to dismiss his gift..

He has scars to show off. There’s one on his side. Another in each wrist and his feet. Kevin Burgess at Chaotic Soul reminded me that Christ’s scars remained after the resurrection. Whenever I start feeling small, he shows them to me and I remember. I can’t even come close to comparing mine to his..

Amazingly, A couple of other bloggers are tracking on this same theme today. Julie, write, “He Loves me Anyway” at a Journey to Beloved, and Sheila LaGrand, who writes about The Red Velvet Dress at Godspotting.

Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
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