Scars
tell stories. They are silent troubadours that remain permanently
carved into one’s body, always ready to tell the history of their
origins. Some people are even able to articulate their life’s
journey simply by pointing to the scars they bear, both in the heart
and on the body.
My
father has a scar on his arm that he cherishes, because it tells a
story he loves to remember, and points to one of the things he holds
most dear to his heart—me, his son. It’s a scar that I’m not
particularly proud of, because I’m the one who carelessly inflicted
it. We went fishing and camping in the Quetico National Park of
Canada, just north of Minnesota’s Boundary Waters. We paddled
during the day, fishing as we went, and then camped at night when we
cooked our day’s catch of Northern Pike. It’s an experience that
is impossible to forget because of the pristine surroundings and the
mesmerizing solitude that swallows you up in its majesty. One
evening, my father prepared the iron skillet over the coals as he sat
opposite me. The oil was ready for the breaded filets. I picked up
the filets and mindlessly tossed them into the cooking oil, splashing
it onto my dad. The oil burned his forearm. He yelped in pain and
grimaced from the burn that throbbed on his arm. “Uh, sorry dad,”
I said, ashamed at my carelessness. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s not
a bad burn.”
I
never thought about it again until years later when my father and I
were talking. I’m not sure what brought it up, but he rolled up his
sleeve and pointed to the scar on his forearm. “Do you remember
where that came from?” he asked.
“No,”
I responded.
“This
scar is from our Quetico fishing trip.” He looked at me and smiled.
“Do you remember splashing me with the cooking oil?” I winced at
the memory. He chuckled. “Sometimes when I’m alone and you come
to mind, I will stop what I’m doing, roll up my sleeve and touch
this scar.” He rubbed it as he spoke. “I love this scar, because
it reminds me of you, and how special of a time I had with you in
Canada; and it reminds me of how much I love you and how grateful I
am to God that he has given you to me as my son.”
I
made some comment like, “I’m glad my carelessness could
contribute to something!” and we laughed together. But I never
forgot that scar on my father’s arm. To this day, I’m grateful
that it remains there, and that it provides for him an occasion to
remember me and pray for me while I am in Afghanistan.
That
scar silently tells a story to my father every day. And although I
don’t wear the scar on my own body, I’m grateful for it, because
that same scar tells me a story, too—a story much bigger than how
it was created. Part of what makes it so special to me is that it was
my own carelessness that resulted in that scar. To me, his scar is a
reminder of how he has been there for me so often in times of my own
personal distress—many times resulting from my own recklessness and
error. There have been several occasions in my life where my father
was deeply hurt as a result of my own personal failure. He stepped
into my life and did his best to protect me and cover me from the
consequences of my actions. He bore the shame and the hurt as much as
I did, and without a doubt I know if there was anything he could have
done to protect me from the pain I deserved to feel, he would have
done it—even to his own detriment.
The
scar on my dad’s arm tells a story of the undying love with which I
have been loved from the time of my conception. It tells of a love
that has made me feel secure my whole life. It tells the story of a
father who spent countless hours with his son in the back yard
throwing football routes, and catching curve balls and blocking bad
pitches with his body so we wouldn’t lose another ball in the
weeds; and it tells of a father who never let his son win a game of
one-on-one basketball, but who rejoiced with shouts of exultation
when his son finally beat him for the first time.
That
scar tells of a father who never shouted once at his son in anger and
who, when his son wrecked the car, towed the car home and without a
hint of irritation went to work removing the front two fenders and
hammered them out so that the car could be driven again the next day.
That
scar tells of a father who stood publicly with his son in the shame
of character failure and who refused to believe anything but the best
about him, and who persisted in remaining his son’s most avid
supporter against all odds. Yes, I love that scar because although
part of the scar’s story is my own carelessness, the bigger theme
of the story is my father’s undying, unconditional love for me, his
son.
His
scar also reminds me of the affection my God has for me. Isaiah the
prophet writes:
Can
a woman forget her nursing child,
that
she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even
these may forget, yet I will not forget you.
Behold,
I have engraved you on the palms of my hands… 1
God
understands scars. So he gave this vivid picture to Israel as a
promise that she would never be abandoned. And he gave us Jesus to
make good on that promise he gave Israel so many thousands of years
ago—the promise that we could never earn the love he gave us so
freely at such a high cost to himself. Our sins were the nails. God’s
love was the hammer. Those scars that remain on Jesus’ body are the
proof.
Scars
tell stories. Those scars on Jesus’ body told the story to Thomas,
whom we criticize so freely for doubting. They told the story to the
disciples. They all believed, and were forever transformed by the
story those scars told. If we live every day in memory of those
scars, the story will transform us, too. Those scars, and the story
they tell, will deliver us from anything this world can throw at us.
This
Easter season, may we remember those scars, and remember the story
they tell, that we would love the one who bears them for us.
1
The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. 2001 (Is 49:15–16).
Wheaton: Standard Bible Society.
