A little more than 16 years ago, I had surgery to remove a malignant tumor in my chest cavity. The surgery was essential. Yet I was left with a visible scar that ran the entire length of my sternum. For years, I hated my scar and spent many nights weeping in self-pity. A cortisone shot, which felt like liquid fire at the time, eased the puffy redness and yet I glared at the white scar with loathing and disgust.
I hid the scar under high neck blouses and scarves lest others stare in pity or worse, ask me what happened; and I would have to explain for the hundredth time what a thymus gland was, and that I had cancer, and yes, had radiation treatments. People are naturally sympathetic yet predictably curious. A simple answer was never enough.
And then one day something changed. I was leaving the doctors office after a follow-up appointment, one of many, when a grey-haired gentleman greeted me with words I will never forget. "I see you're a member of the zipper club," he told me. He obviously could tell I was puzzled for he pointed to his chest. I smiled and responded, "yes, I am." Although a thymectomy is different from heart surgery, the scars are identical.
Some time after this exchange, I began to wear regular clothes again, no longer hiding what I had felt so long was an ugly deformity. I came to realize that I was a part of a special group of people who had gone through a tremendous struggle and had miraculously survived; and we happen to wear medals of achievement on our chests.
There is an abundance of stories about people who are coming to grips with scars; calendars of people that proudly display them, tattoo art intended to cover them, and even jewelry that replicate them. People wth physical deformities can regain a sense of normality. But not all scars are visible.
There are those walking around with emotional scars far greater than any physical flaw. Sadly these scars are easier to hide. Those who are afflicted walk in fear that someone will notice and call them out for being less than human. Yet who among us has not at some time in our lives grasped at anonymity in order to appear normal. Like it or not, we all have a responsibility to reach out to others, to be a true friend, so that all of us may feel at peace with who we are, scars and all.
In a way, scars are meant to be celebrated. Scars are proof that we are survivors. Those things that caused our wounds didn't get the best of us. And being "the scarred ones" helps us to identify with the One who was scarred for us. Do you not think that we will recognize our LORD by HIS scars? Recall the words of the B.B. McKinney hymn, "place your hand in the nail-scarred hand" and imagine yourself walking hand-in-hand with the One who sees what we try so diligently to hide.
