I didn’t catch the irony last month when I edited a passage in my novel about people hiding their metaphorical scars… the day before I had major surgery to reconnect the fragments of my broken right humerus (the bone of your upper arm) with a plate and screws. My incision line runs in a diagonal from the inside of my shoulder to the outside of my elbow and required 49 staples to close. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ll wear a scar I cannot conceal for the rest of my life.

After the occupational therapist removed the steri-strips and we saw the puckered line and staple marks, my children, who would have been as prepared as anyone, couldn’t look. I could hardly stand it myself. My husband (who has the strongest stomach) keeps a photographic record of my progress.

I thank God the accident and surgery are a little further in the rearview mirror when I go to bed each night. Only time will tell how this experience changes me, but I feel different already.

When fellow (in)courage contributor Kathi Lipp checked on my progress, she said, “I love when people share their scars with me.” Kathi said that scars show what people have been through, and she feels honored when people trust her with their stories. Those are the people she wants surrounding her in a crisis or when she needs to be buoyed. Her comments made me ponder what I’ve learned from this experience and how it will help me relate to other people. 

I’m more aware of what it feels like to be lonely, forgotten, and isolated (I haven’t driven since August 11th). I now know what it’s like to be in constant pain or discomfort. Frustrated by my inability to do ordinary things. Overwhelmed by my circumstances. Terrified of not healing well.

I’ve wondered if certain places or situations would trigger something like PTSD. Almost four weeks to the day after surgery, my daughter and I attended the doubleheader that ended the Braves’ regular season. We sat up high where the incline was steep, and an older man seated three rows above us fell. Somehow, he cleared two rows of seats and landed against the back of ours. His leg came to rest on my daughter. He lay on his side, right arm pinned beneath him. It terrified me. I couldn’t take my eyes off his arm, searching for evidence of whether he’d broken it. People helped him to his seat, but I was still trying to discern how badly he was hurt.

Afterward, I turned forward again and cried. It was all too familiar, too soon, too much for me. I hate feeling hijacked by my emotions, but I won’t be surprised if this happens again when I’m faced with someone else’s accident or injury. (FYI: someone called medical personnel, who checked the man out and deemed him okay.)

No one gets through life unscathed. Not all of us are visibly marked, but sometimes internal wounds can cut deeper than those we can see.

After the resurrection, Jesus chose to wear the visible scars of His crucifixion. Like a character in a sci-fi movie, He could have healed them without a trace if He chose, but He didn’t. He bore the marks of the punishment He received on our behalf.

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”
John 20:27 NIV

Did Jesus keep His scars as a sign of His empathy?

He knows what it means to be wounded. And only He can heal us.

Since my injury and surgery, I’ve had a hard time finding things to wear. I can’t lift my arm very high, which makes it hard to get into most clothes, and my shoulder has to be accessible at occupational therapy twice a week. So I have a new wardrobe of clothes that bare one or both shoulders. Will I wear them later, when I can raise my arm again and no longer need them? I think I will. It comes down to whether or not I try to hide my scars.

Jesus didn’t hide His. Indeed, these scars are part of me now.

We all bear the marks of trauma, even if they’re invisible to the eye. Let’s consider how our scars can make us more empathetic to those around us.

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