When my boys where little, they were fascinated by scars. So much so that when they fell and skinned a knee or got cut, one way to ease the pain was to talk about what a cool scar this was going to make someday. Then they would take the pain in stride and tell a comprehensive story about how they were wounded. Each scar had a story to go with it.

All my surgical scars are the same. When I was being cut up, I didn’t like my wounds. They hurt. They were reminders of my sickness and injury. They marred my body. They were red, swollen, and angry. They made my life difficult. Never mind that they were evidence that cancer was removed from my body. Never mind that they showed exactly where my knees were repaired so that I can walk normally. I didn’t see it that way…at first.

Over time, like my children, I have come to see that each scar has a story…a victory to go with it. A story of survival. For the victory to happen, the wound had to happen first. I have aged into the idea of being grateful for my scars. Grateful my disease was able to be cut out of my gut. Grateful that medicine, poison though it was, could be pumped into my port. Grateful my legs could be repaired so I can walk.  Each scar tells a part of my story, like a physical map of my life I carry on my body.

Emotional scars are not as easy to see. I call them heart scars. They are there, just like the physical ones, but they are invisible. I am the only one who knows the wounds that reside in the deep recesses of my heart, and sometimes they are so deep I don’t even know them myself. Some of them are connected to the physical scars, but others are not as easily identified. A broken relationship. A childhood wound that cannot be recognized any longer. A harsh word that cut deep. So many scars. Shame. Abandonment. Rejection. Trauma. The list could go on forever.

We all have these scars that play hide and seek with our emotions. These are the ones that tell their stories in our heads. They remind us of our secret pain. The grief of life experiences follows us into each day. But without the wounds, there is no victory. Without the wounds, there is no opportunity to offer forgiveness. Without the wounds, the capacity for compassion is lessened. Would I choose these scars? No way. Would I choose the opportunity for transformation the wounds create? Yes. I would.

As I reflect on Easter as I do every year, I realize that if Jesus had refused the wounds, there would have been no resurrection. If He had refused to be scarred, I would have perished. We all would. To Him, the scars were worth the wounds. The pain was a side note to the purpose of his coming. The rising. The overcoming. The victory. His scars tell His story, which is also my story. They sing of His love for me. So great a love…

And so, my scars also have a song to sing. A melody of haunting sorrows and powerful victories. A complex composition, which is woven throughout my days along with the scarlet thread of love. The physical and emotional marks of pain, transformed by His resurrection, into a symphony of hope. On this day, I remember His scars. I remember the torture He endured. But I also remember the rising. Death died, but the scars remained. They still remain. In His hands and feet. In His side. On His brow. They sing over me. A song of rejoicing. It is incomprehensible, his joy at my rising. And my own scars answer back. Singing with His. Hosanna. Hosanna to the Risen One, who loves me beyond the grave.

So now, when a wound is happening, I try to focus on the scar that will remain. A story of victory. A reminder of the hope of transformation. A mark of resurrection. A new part…to the song of my scars.

The Lord your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing. Zephaniah 3:17