A Glimpse of the Familiar

Not every scar carries a story I want to tell.

I’ll admit to avoiding some of mine. Their origins leave me feeling isolated - like no one understands.

Their presence is tied to deep-seated pain and things yet to be healed.

I wish I could erase them, and with them, all that led to their permanent mark.

After Jesus rose from the dead, one of his disciples named Thomas refused to believe it was really Him unless he saw the scars for himself (John 20: 24-27).

And Jesus, being who He is, provided the proof.

He invited Thomas to run his finger along the nail marks; to place his hand in the damage the spear undoubtedly left in his side.

Scars are such a hallmark of our broken human condition. I’m amazed that Jesus didn’t erase His.

What use did He have for such things?

He had just challenged the world’s oldest adversary and was named the undefeated champion.

The keys to death and hell were now stashed safely in his back pocket.

He was heaven-bound and no pain or past can live there.

Why not blot out any evidence of the horrors?

Because He knew we would still be here.

And that at times, hope would feel foreign, like a language we don’t speak or understand.

When I can’t relate to his power or purposes, I remember He was once human like me.

He experienced exhaustion, anger, disgust, and sorrow.

He understood what it meant to be abandoned by his friends and mocked by his enemies.

And more than I ever will, he knew agony.

He was whipped, beaten, and paraded through dusty streets.

Nails were pounded through both wrists and while dangling, a spear thrust into His side.

With the weight of all sin on His shoulders, His father turned away and the world went dark.

Throughout the hardest times of my life, even when I was physically alone, I have never been without God. But Jesus was that day. Led into the abyss that is utter rejection.

The invisible scars are often the hardest to bear.

If given the kind of power He had, by Sunday I would be obliterating the wounds of Friday.

But the Savior seeks to draw us close. And more often than not, it’s easier to get close to someone who understands what hurts, not just what’s whole and hopeful.

When I struggle to grasp His divinity - when it seems like no one understands the pain behind my scars - I remember His humanity.

He knows me well enough to know sometimes I require a glimpse of the familiar.

He loves me well enough to offer it if only to say, “I know.”

He had scars, too.