Scars
Seventeen months ago my then three year old fell off a playground bridge and broke her arm.
It was one of those earth and bone shattering moments that you can never un-see; when a fraction of a second seems to genuinely stand still and your brain unkindly races ahead to play out all the horrific possibilities you never want to believe could ever be your reality.
Believe me when I tell you that bones should never be seen. There's a reason God put them on the inside you know.
All this time later and those minutes, hours, days still seem surreal. Ambulances, IV's, doctors rushing around and fluids pumping into that one little arm still intact. Surgery, hushed talk of horrible side effects, the threat of infection, sleepless nights on a hospital couch, all the Rend Collective songs she begged me to keep singing, the worried looks of siblings coming to visit and the attempts to explain all kinds of things to a three-year-old that the mind is not yet wired to comprehend.
Memories tend to fade with time but they are kept alive by a two inch scar on the inside of her right elbow. The trauma of bones bursting out through skin was just too much. Talented surgeons did their best but it wasn't a neat and tidy cut. The scar is ugly, the skin slightly uneven.
Well meaning people tsk-tsk at it. They shake their heads sympathetically and offer hope that the scar, like our memories, will fade and hopefully one day her arm will once again appear perfect.
And I get it.
That soft, smooth skin of a 3 year old. Indelibly marred by violent trauma.
It's hard to stomach.
They told me to put the oil on it faithfully. That it would work its wonders and the scar would be barely noticeable...that it would surely fade to nothing. They were well meaning and all had stories of diminishing scars and barely noticeable marks.
And I did. I mean, most days I did. She didn't want me to touch it sometimes, but I tried. I rubbed the oil in and felt the unevenness of her skin and realized quickly how much it meant to me.
That scar. Those marks.
It wasn't all brokenness that day you know.
There were siblings being pulled together into a scared Mama's arms, and a gut-response to drop to our knees and call out to God in the middle of the crowd of ashen-faced spectators. There was a strong daddy who pulled that little girl tight to his chest and told her she'd be okay and spoke a firm "No!" to every fibre of his being that longed to faint at the sight of the trauma.
There was a school community that pulled tight together and offered help, food and love, and a church family that likewise walked alongside with prayer and support.
No, you can't tell me it was all brokenness that day. It was not all ugly.
All the while those little bones were being knit back together - while we watched that lit up screen week after week and marvelled at the new bone steadily laid down over what was once fractured - a family was being knit together too. As we prayed for miracles, we watched children grow in faith and speak of yet another miracle being worked on behalf of our family. We prayed in earnest together; for healing, for the faith to trust and not fear, to be drawn to the only One who can bring a soul peace. We reminded each other that the One who knit those bones together in the beginning would faithfully do so again.
And He did. And we loved Him all the more through it.
So you see, after that cast came off and we all saw those marks, that scar, we couldn't help but see it differently.
Those scars have become miracle markers for us. They speak of beauty.
We point at it, look at it, sometimes rub the oil into it and we declare that as long as we can see it, we remember that God is good and He hears the prayers of this family-broken like everybody else by sin but knit together by the One who lovingly holds all things.
Have you seen the way the thread of Remembrance is knit into the very fabric of the Old Testament? God graciously called His people to it in times of sin, fear and triumph. It was the answer in the face of brokenness, victory and defeat. The call to Sabbath was actually a call to stop forgetting. To cease striving and remember the One who has done the work. The One Who will do it again. The One who saved, who will save and is saving.
In the Psalms, David finds remembrance to be the solution to doubt and despair. He clings to it as the only answer to his downtrodden soul.
David knew the cadence of Sabbath was to be the heartbeat of the people. He understood that the rhythm of Sabbath was actually the rhythm of restoration.
Despite the call to remembrance, Israel forgot like clockwork and so do I. It's the human condition to forget and hence the repeated reminder.
So yes, I understand your care for my daughter. I know your heart for her body to be unscarred by the trauma of life in this broken world. It's hard to embrace the hurt. But wouldn't you rather see those marks every day and follow them as they point you ultimately to the answer to the brokenness?
Wouldn't you rather feel those scars and declare like Thomas...my Lord and my God!
The world calls them ugly but to us they are a beautiful reminder of the Faithfulness of the God who holds all things together...
The one marred by His own scars. Those marks of another miracle, of the brokenness that brings restoration.
For all of it...I remember and am ever so thankful.
It was one of those earth and bone shattering moments that you can never un-see; when a fraction of a second seems to genuinely stand still and your brain unkindly races ahead to play out all the horrific possibilities you never want to believe could ever be your reality.
Believe me when I tell you that bones should never be seen. There's a reason God put them on the inside you know.
All this time later and those minutes, hours, days still seem surreal. Ambulances, IV's, doctors rushing around and fluids pumping into that one little arm still intact. Surgery, hushed talk of horrible side effects, the threat of infection, sleepless nights on a hospital couch, all the Rend Collective songs she begged me to keep singing, the worried looks of siblings coming to visit and the attempts to explain all kinds of things to a three-year-old that the mind is not yet wired to comprehend.
Memories tend to fade with time but they are kept alive by a two inch scar on the inside of her right elbow. The trauma of bones bursting out through skin was just too much. Talented surgeons did their best but it wasn't a neat and tidy cut. The scar is ugly, the skin slightly uneven.
Well meaning people tsk-tsk at it. They shake their heads sympathetically and offer hope that the scar, like our memories, will fade and hopefully one day her arm will once again appear perfect.
And I get it.
That soft, smooth skin of a 3 year old. Indelibly marred by violent trauma.
It's hard to stomach.
They told me to put the oil on it faithfully. That it would work its wonders and the scar would be barely noticeable...that it would surely fade to nothing. They were well meaning and all had stories of diminishing scars and barely noticeable marks.
And I did. I mean, most days I did. She didn't want me to touch it sometimes, but I tried. I rubbed the oil in and felt the unevenness of her skin and realized quickly how much it meant to me.
That scar. Those marks.
It wasn't all brokenness that day you know.
There were siblings being pulled together into a scared Mama's arms, and a gut-response to drop to our knees and call out to God in the middle of the crowd of ashen-faced spectators. There was a strong daddy who pulled that little girl tight to his chest and told her she'd be okay and spoke a firm "No!" to every fibre of his being that longed to faint at the sight of the trauma.
There was a school community that pulled tight together and offered help, food and love, and a church family that likewise walked alongside with prayer and support.
No, you can't tell me it was all brokenness that day. It was not all ugly.
All the while those little bones were being knit back together - while we watched that lit up screen week after week and marvelled at the new bone steadily laid down over what was once fractured - a family was being knit together too. As we prayed for miracles, we watched children grow in faith and speak of yet another miracle being worked on behalf of our family. We prayed in earnest together; for healing, for the faith to trust and not fear, to be drawn to the only One who can bring a soul peace. We reminded each other that the One who knit those bones together in the beginning would faithfully do so again.
And He did. And we loved Him all the more through it.
So you see, after that cast came off and we all saw those marks, that scar, we couldn't help but see it differently.
Those scars have become miracle markers for us. They speak of beauty.
We point at it, look at it, sometimes rub the oil into it and we declare that as long as we can see it, we remember that God is good and He hears the prayers of this family-broken like everybody else by sin but knit together by the One who lovingly holds all things.
Have you seen the way the thread of Remembrance is knit into the very fabric of the Old Testament? God graciously called His people to it in times of sin, fear and triumph. It was the answer in the face of brokenness, victory and defeat. The call to Sabbath was actually a call to stop forgetting. To cease striving and remember the One who has done the work. The One Who will do it again. The One who saved, who will save and is saving.
Remember the Lord Thy God who brought you out of Egypt...
In the Psalms, David finds remembrance to be the solution to doubt and despair. He clings to it as the only answer to his downtrodden soul.
My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember You...
Despite the call to remembrance, Israel forgot like clockwork and so do I. It's the human condition to forget and hence the repeated reminder.
So yes, I understand your care for my daughter. I know your heart for her body to be unscarred by the trauma of life in this broken world. It's hard to embrace the hurt. But wouldn't you rather see those marks every day and follow them as they point you ultimately to the answer to the brokenness?
Wouldn't you rather feel those scars and declare like Thomas...my Lord and my God!
The world calls them ugly but to us they are a beautiful reminder of the Faithfulness of the God who holds all things together...
The one marred by His own scars. Those marks of another miracle, of the brokenness that brings restoration.
For all of it...I remember and am ever so thankful.
Comments
inspired and learn!! This post made me cry. You guys are awesome. Thank you for teaching us all of how to become more like Jesus! You are an inspiration! I think of you often and can't wait for the day when our paths joins together again. One day.....Lots of love from Elin in Hawaii