Scars that Speak
“Mama, wake up. I need to go to the hospital.”
The alarm clock screamed before the sun rose. My brother, gone for the weekend, set his clock for 4:30 AM. Half asleep, I climbed up the bunk-bed ladder to silence it. As I reached for the clock, something shifted from beneath me.
The day before, Dylan and I removed the screws that secured the ladder to the bed’s frame. Before I could reach the alarm clock, the sickening shift of gravity pulled me down. My shin slammed against a two-by-four lying on the floor, and a shock of pain shot through my leg. Then, nothing. Dazed, I reached down to feel my leg. The skin felt wrong – dented, hollow.
Through the dim hallway light, between the torn flesh, I saw the white of my tibia and white and pink beads of flesh surrounding it. I needed stitches
“Mama,” I called, steady and urgent.
She met me in the living room with a towel and a soft cloth soaked in alcohol in her hand. No purse. No coat. Just hesitation.
“Mom, I don’t think that’s going to work.”
She froze with her eyes fixed on my leg, scanning it in disbelief. The fan in the living room ticked as it and my mom came up to speed.
Some wounds need more than a bandage. Some wounds need a healer.
Thirteen stitches inside. Twenty-four outside
Hardly a week later, I grabbed a pair of fingernail clippers to remove the stitches. I snipped each knot and tugged the sutures from my flesh. The following scar was bigger than it should have been - a jagged, clumsy reminder of my self-sufficiency.
I wish the smooth, pink scar told a more heroic tale. It could have been a battle wound from some daring adventure, but no. The biggest physical scar I carry came from the most mundane of moments: turning off the alarm clock so I could sleep in on a Saturday morning.
Still, that scar speaks. It tells of my stubbornness, self-reliance, and my aversion to asking for help. My shin affirms a lesson I keep forgetting: some wounds cannot heal without the hands of a physician.
God warns us against self-sufficiency. In Deuteronomy 8, He reminds Israel not to forget how He led them, fed them, and sustained them. He knew their hearts. He knew how easily they would succumb to believing they provided for themselves.
Our human nature, strength, resilience, busyness, and desire for success often lead us to forget the One who carries us.
“Beware lest you say in your heart, ‘My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.’ You shall remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you the power to get wealth. . . “(Deuteronomy 8:17-18).
Like Israel, I forget. I try to mend my wounds on my own. I press forward through struggle as if I never learned my lesson. And every time I do, the scars grow deeper.
Scars remind us of our failures. They also point to the faithfulness of God. They remind us of where we’ve been and the grace that brought us through. Jesus Himself, even in His resurrected body, bore His scars. Not as a sign of defeat but of victory. His wounds were not erased – they became evidence of the price He paid and the work He finished (John 20:27).
Do your scars teach you that you’re all you need, or do they teach you to trust God more?
I look at my scar and remember self-sufficiency leads to unnecessary wounds. Healing doesn’t come from our efforts but from resting in the hands of the One who was wounded for my sake. Every scar – physical or spiritual – can tell a story of grace if I only let it. The Gospel doesn’t require us to erase the past but reveals the One who carried us through it.
In the comments below, I’d love to hear your testimony of God sustaining you in life.