Editor’s Note: The following post was originally published on The Walk To Remember in 2018. It has been reformatted to this website.

Scars. If it weren’t for the disruption to the normalcy of our flesh, they would not exist. They set themselves as a reminder. Some are great, and some are small. Some bring honor, and some bring shame. I have one on my right shin from a bike accident that occurred in my preteen years, as I was trying to flee the grip of fear that the neighbor’s Rottweiler bestowed upon me. My Dad has a round circle from a bottle rocket that kicked him in his stomach one Fourth of July. But, there is one that startles me every time as I accidentally brush my hand against it. It measures the length of my finger, and for that brief moment I am forgetful of its existence. That is until it stops me and begs the question “do you remember?”

I was wee young and full of foolishness. Much like today (with exception to the “wee young” part). It was in the backyard of the brick house that was halfway down a dirt road in Amherst County. It was our swing set. It was your typical early eighties model. Blue and white come to mind, but the years have worn my memory out. Other than the typical swinging and sliding, I loved to climb to the top. I remember placing my foot on the double swing, then the other on a support bar, then another, and then eventually I sat upon the top of the world. It was here where I would bear witness to life changing events in the countries of my world beneath. Wars would begin. Treaties were made. Disasters struck and great swarms of communities gathered together to offer relief to their brothers. I was king of it all!

One weekend my cousin came to stay the night with us. I believe it was in the warm Saturday morning hours that I decided to show her how I could perch upon my throne. She was sitting in the double swing as I confirmed the plan with her. “Do not swing”, I said (or maybe it was “do not move”, but who is paying attention to minors?). I had done this stunt countless times before and it was executed flawlessly every time. However, what happened next could be debated. I’m uncertain as to whether her weight caused the swing to move this time, or if she decided to push the red button. But as I fell back to earth, my upper rear thigh decided to kiss a bolt that was hanging from the support bar. I don’t remember much after that. Just pain, tears, and lots of blood. I remember laying flat, watching Saturday morning cartoons, while my Dad was bandaging my leg with gauze the size of bed sheets. At least it seemed like bed sheets at the time. I also remember painful visits with the toilet seat for weeks. This is the story that the scar tells me. But what about the scars of life? What about our personal trail of tears? We all have a past, don’t we?

There are some who wish that I wouldn’t share my testimony. Maybe because it is hard to hear, or maybe because they are the players in the theatre. But a testimony is important, not because it is for our benefit, but because it is for the glory of God. Sometimes the story is uncomfortable and painful, but so is the past that is void of Jesus. Not everyone has the same story to tell. Some may have had such a horrid past that things cannot be repeated. I imagine that there are those who are behind bars, who have come to Christ that still cannot allow their past to cross their lips. Understandable. However, most of us do have a story to share. Maybe we have walked with Christ our entire life, only to stumble from the path at various historical markers, or we have tread the hot coals of Hell, it is important to show what we have been delivered from. It is important to show our scars.

In Acts 26 (and briefly in Galatians 1), the Apostle Paul gives a stunning testimony on where he was when God literally knocked him off his high horse. He was the Pharisee of Pharisees. The red carpet was rolled out before him as he approached the Sanhedrin. He had the best seat in the synagogue. Pious was he! Oh, how humbled he became! He went from being the great persecutor of the Church, to being the great Apostle to the Church. From being the great persecutor of Jesus, to being the great advocate for Christ. From being the great teacher of the law, to being the great master in grace. From being the great witness to the first martyr, to being the great martyr himself. His pre and post conversion life is a great testimony to the saving power of Christ Jesus. No matter how vile his actions were to his fellow brethren, he doesn’t hesitate to show the power that is in the blood, the same blood that flowed from the hand that reached down to forgive and transform him.

Some would say that our scars are gone once we become the children of God. However, I would say that it isn’t so. Scars can no longer offer blood. In many cases scars can no longer hurt. Scars are nothing more than the reminder of a healed wound. Oh, may God have mercy on us if we forget the mud that He had pulled us and cleansed us from! However, these scars that I speak of are not physical alterations to our flesh. No. They are battle scars from the war that is spiritual. From the war within. From the war with our old self. From a past that was once like midnight, a moment where light was dim, scarce, or nonexistent. These scars offer a story to tell. A story of redemption. A story of forgiveness. A story of growth and pressing forward. A story of Jesus- the One who rewrites the story of our life, who masters our wounds, our pain, and the scars that are sealed for the day of redemption (Ephesians 4:30). The One that deserves the glory for what has been done for us, and in us. 

May we not forget from where God has carried us from. May we not shame the wounds that God has healed. May we not fear the darkness that magnifies the light.

Show your scars!