Scars

I have to admit, I have been feeling sort of sorry for myself lately. I keep wondering, "Why did all this bad stuff have to happen to me?" I feel a little lost. What do I do now, when I don't feel like doing anything? What do I make of this inertia I'm experiencing? I'm reading, I'm gardening, I'm watching baseball, but I don't want to do another single thing. I can't even conceive of how to get excited about teaching in the fall--another whole year? Ugh! And more master's classes? Forget about it!

But even though I pay almost no attention to the daily news, it's impossible not to hear about people whose lives are a whole lot worse than mine. Just yesterday, I read an article about the malaria that erases thousands of lives a minute on the African continent. Zack told me about a firefighter who was burned over 95% of his body, has skin only on his back, and has to have expanders under that skin to stretch it so that it can be harvested to cover other parts of his body. The day of my surgery, in the parking lot of the very hospital where I was a patient, a man shot to death his wife and then killed himself, orphaning three young children. At my postop appointment on Wednesday, Steve and I passed a young man with only one leg, the other most likely taken by cancer. So who am I to complain? Where does my suffering rank on this list? Worse than some, better than others, better than practically everyone in the world who daily fights hunger, war, disease?

But I feel like complaining. I didn't like being shown a brain tumor on my MRI. I didn't like being sick and hospitalized. I didn't like having brain surgery. I didn't like having thirty metal staples removed from my head. I don't like this big scabby scar that crosses the top of my head so that I can't brush or blow-dry my hair. I don't like the fear my children must have been feeling, the anxiety Steve has surely felt almost nonstop for four months now. I don't like the attention I'm getting for having gotten sick. Don't get me wrong, I like attention. But notice my achievements, recognize my accomplishments. That's the kind of attention I like.

And then yesterday, in looking through my "drafts" folder in gmail, I came across a quote I had emailed to myself back in May. I must have found a comfort in these words that made me want to save them: "God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars" (Elbert Hubbard, 1856-1915). If this is true, then I have a doozy. Or at least, I will have. Right now I have a sort of crusty, scabby, gross mess.

But it's not just this scar that God can see. He knows every hurt, every failure, every mistake, misstep and miscalculation. If I am scarred on the outside, and I now am, I am even more scarred on the inside, and it is these scars that make me lovable to God. He sees, he acknowledges, he recognizes, and he loves.

His love is the great equalizer. To him, all suffering is equally bad, completely unlike what he planned for us. He doesn't rank our sorrows and grieve accordingly. He sees the hurts of all mankind, and he grieves for all. And then he loves, and all hurts are immediately given the power to bring healing and growth to those who hurt. Every wound, no matter how great or small, grieves God. To him, every scar is a badge, a symbol of a battle fought, no matter whether won or lost.

I think this is how he sees sin, too. Every sin, no matter how great or small, is the same to God. Each has power and potentiality. Sin has the power to separate us from God, as we hide in our shame and humiliation. But it also has the potential to bring us back, to cause us to seek God in our desire for forgiveness and reconciliation. So even as I wallow in self-pity, certainly a sin, God promises a return. My spirit will soon be renewed, my anxiousness will disappear. My motivation will resurface. My former peace, which seems to have utterly abandoned me, will return.

In the 16th chapter of his gospel, John writes of a conversation Jesus had with his disciples in which he explained that he would no longer use figures of speech or stories to illustrate his concepts, but that he would speak plainly to reveal his truth. When they said, "Ah! Now we get it--now we understand who you are!" Jesus replied, "Do you finally believe?...I've told you all this so that trusting me, you will be unshakable and assured, deeply at peace. In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I've conquered the world" (v. 25-33).

With these words, Christ promises peace. He does not promise ease, or freedom from suffering, illness, injury, or even death. But he does promise peace to those who believe he is, indeed, in charge. I sure could use some peace right now. Thank God I know where to find it.