Scar Stories

I think I met an angel today.

He was 16 years old.

I know, weird.

So here's the story. I'm an intern for a company that REALLY likes soda, and everybody has their own carbonated beverage of choice. As the intern, it is my distinct honor to be personally responsible for making sure that we are adequately stocked with the fizzy nectar of goodness at all times. Today was shopping day.

Today was also the day I forgot to take my medicine.

Repeat after me: "Keri, you're a GENIUS!"

So I spent an hour throwing my entire body into navigating a cart overflowing with milk and honey (and by milk and honey I obviously mean water bottles and fridge packs of soda) through the maze that they call Kroger, and it hurt. Like a lot. After being dragged down the steep decline from the store to my car by a shopping cart that could hold its own in the next Die Hard movie, I was nearly in tears. "A little help God?" I popped my trunk and stared hopelessly at the cases of water and braced myself for the shooting pains that I knew were coming the second I tried to lift that 32 pack. Right as I reached for it though, I heard a voice over my shoulder asking, "May I help you with your groceries?"

Standing just behind me was my own personal angel. He wasn't glowing, but I'm still pretty confident in my assessment.

Under normal circumstances, I would have said no. In fact, I probably would have been offended and muttered to myself, "Do I look like I'm 80?!" But today was different. Today I needed all the help I could get. Today, I smiled and said, "Yes actually, I could really use some help."

I stood back and watched as he expertly loaded my tiny car with enough sugary drinks and snacks to give the entire state of Virginia diabetes, and then I thanked him with a smile and drove off.

God takes good care of me. Thank you, mystery teen!

Possibly the greatest thing about having arthritis is that it gives me regular opportunities to be reminded how much God loves me and how capable He is of taking care of me.

About 2 weeks ago I was sitting in a seminary class when my prof made a passing reference to the fact that Jesus already has his resurrection body. It wasn't his main point, which is a bummer because I actually don't remember any thing else about that lecture... I should probably brush up before the final! Anyway, I got stuck on that comment. It make sense that he would have his resurrection body already, I mean, he was resurrected and all, but I'd never made that connection before. And to be honest, it really bothered me. So after class, I walked up to the prof and told him what was on my mind.

"Dr. W, you said that Jesus already has his resurrection body, right?"
"That's right."
"But he still had scars in his hands and feet. Do you think we will still have scars when we get our resurrection body?"

He thought about it for a while and then said yes.

I thought about that conversation for the rest of the night, and I've come to the conclusion that I agree with him. Now before you accuse me of heresy and start picking up stones, hear me out.

Jesus was resurrected with holes in his hands and feet because they bore testimony to the redeeming work that God had done. The evidence of his wounds remained, but they were made glorious by the resurrection. They were now a reason for celebration, causing people to worship their Creator. The were no longer ugly and painful, but they were beautiful.

I hope get to keep my scars too. The one from the time that I burned my hand helping cook dinner for all my new friends in the Fellows program and the one that I got from not paying attention when I was trying to carve a spoon to use on my wilderness trip, sure, but mostly I hope I get to keep the scars nobody else sees. The ones from the pain, fear, and self-consciousness that came with being diagnosed with RA, the ones from having my heart broken by men who told me I wasn't enough, and the ones from the man who told me I was nothing more than a body to be used. If you could see my heart, you'd see some pretty ugly scar tissue built up there.

I know what you're asking, "Why would you want to keep those? Don't you want to be perfect?"

Don't get me wrong, I've looked in the mirror more than a few times and sighed to myself thinking, "Just you wait for that heavenly body... you're going to be a freaking BOMBSHELL!"... but I think that these scars are part of that beauty. A really important part actually.

I've written before about how often God has used hard things to teach me really cool lessons about himself. I can confidently say that the tears I have cried in my life have not been bad things. They've been hard, and I would have happily passed them by, but the have been GOOD. They have been windows into the good work that God has done, is doing, and will continue to do for the rest of forever. And that makes me think of the verse that says "for now you know in part, but then you will know in full." I've seen God make really beautiful things out of the uglies in my life, but there are still things I don't understand. However, I fully believe that, with God, nothing is wasted... and I would LOVE to see and understand all that he's doing with my story.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'll bump into my ex in heaven and get a twinge of hurt over being rejected. I think I'll bump into him, greet him with joy, and then we'll have a nice chat about all the great things that came of both our relationship and it's end. We will worship our God, who know beyond a shadow of doubt what he was doing, both when he put us into each others lives and when he sent us on our separate ways. It will be beautiful, and it will be a reason for crazy, passionate, uncontrollable, undeniable worship. How awesome would it be to get to heaven and have built-in stones of remembrance of God's faithfulness in your weakness and pain. To have something to remind you of how deeply God has loved you through every moment of your life. To understand the undeniably brilliant beauty of something you once thought was unforgivably ugly. Now, if we show up in Heaven with Vogue cover model bodies and tabula rasa memories, I'm sure that will be great too, but somehow I don't think that's how it works.

I hope that someday in heaven, we all get to sit around the throne and exchange scar stories. Not the overly embellished kind that boys tell girls to make themselves seem tough. Not the kind that girls tell at slumber parties sobbing into their pillows and plotting epic revenge. I hope we tell the kind that overwhelms us with awe at the loveliness of the scarred and the wisdom and majesty of the Creator.

I'll start the fire and bring the marshmallows... but you're responsible for the chocolate and grahams... I hate s'mores. Don't tell the Sandlot boys.