Scar Stories

“… and by his wounds we are healed.”

~Isaiah 53:5b

Inspiration comes from the strangest of places when you’re me-- my chickens, food (okay, LOTS of food), laundry soap … clearly, God knows that I am one abstract chick, so He goes outside the box when reminding me of life lessons.  Today’s journey takes us to the pediatrician’s office …

            My poor little buddy- if there is one thing you do not need in elementary school, it’s an additional target for teasing.  We’ve dodged a lot of the icky boogities (that is too a word, my mama told me so!) that seem to love children.  No head lice (thank you, LORD, for boys with short hair!), scabies or impetigo have crept into our homes yet, but we did have to take one of my kids in to get a wart removed from his finger.  He wasn’t afraid of the treatment, he wasn’t afraid of the doctor, but he was quite mortified that anyone aside from his mom would know what lurked beneath the bandage.

            We had tried every over-the-counter medication and a few homeopathic remedies, but this little menace kept coming back.  It was time to bring in the big guns; in this case, a liquid nitrogen variety. 

            As we sat in the office, waiting for the doctor, I could tell my son was nervous.  As a mother, it’s my job to calm him down, reassure him and be a safe place for him.  While I was trying to do that on the outside, on the inside, I was thinking, “Oh dear, I didn’t trim his fingernails!  They’re going to think this is just a lack of hygiene and bad parenting issue, I’m sure of it!  We used hand sanitizer on the way in, but did he wash his hands before we left?  I can’t remember.  His ears are clean, that’s something.  Wait-- is that toothpaste on his shoulder?  Oh well, at least he’ll know I make him brush his teeth …”  Hmmmmm, can you imagine where my child would get these irrational fears of his? 

            When the doctor came in, I braced myself for questions regarding what we had and hadn’t tried, washing regimens and the like, but what I witnessed was quite the opposite.  This dear man (who, I found out later, is also a father of three little boys himself) gently approached my son, asked to see his fingers, took a few notes and then held out his own hands, to reveal several tiny scars.  He told us that warts just seem to love little kids, and when he was young, he had them all over his hands and feet.  He empathized that they can be embarrassing and hard to get rid of, but he would do his best to take care of things as quickly and painlessly as he could. 

            I don’t know what it is about doctors, but it seems so easy to forget that they, like the rest of us are people.  They don’t start out life in miniature lab coats and nitrile exam gloves, they start out as little kids, just like the rest of us.  They get colds, break their arms, and yes, they too can get warts!  They live in the same world we do, with the same frail bodies.  Because their job is to heal, we forget that there are times when they too, need healing of their own. 

            I began to think about what life would be like as Christians if we, in stead of strutting about proclaiming our vast knowledge of how to live a perfect life, spent time with hurting people and showing our “scars.”  Hope feels a whole lot more real when you know that the life-changing gospel isn’t just something mature Christians read about to help those “poor, lost sinners.”  The world needs to know that we don't just share The Word to help others, but because it is our hope and saving grace!

            Just as the doctor had to risk someone thinking less of him by discussing a virus he had in his youth, we too, risk others removing us from a pedestal.  Frankly, can hurt one’s pride quite a bit—and maybe that’s needed.  We all know that Jesus was willing to sacrifice himself for us, but his humility began much earlier.  The God of the universe was willing to take human form from a very humble family.  Of his own free will, he chose to sleep in a feed box, poop in a diaper, skin his knees, maybe even get a pimple or two in his teen years, hang out with fishermen and endure the human experience at large, just so he could empathize with us.

As Jesus stretches out his nail-scarred hands to help us, are we willing to follow his example?  Will we reach out to others, sharing our lives, “warts and all?”