Scars
a Saturday story
Scars
In the middle of the underside of my right forearm is a scar—a thin, pale reminder of a long-ago mishap. It’s the kind of memory etched into flesh, demanding to be remembered, whether I like it or not.
I was just a boy, building a clubhouse with my brothers—a sanctuary fashioned from discarded remnants of someone else’s life. We gathered old boards and scrap materials from around the farm, cobbling together something only a child’s imagination could call a fort. It was an exercise in creativity, determination, and, in hindsight, naivety.
Down in the creek bed near our home lay an old car seat—someone’s trash, but to us, a treasure. It was perfect, the final piece for our hideaway. The task of hauling it back was arduous, and we hatched a plan to make it manageable: two of us would carry the seat while the third rested, taking turns so none of us bore the burden for too long.
But restlessness is a potent thing, especially in the young. As I waited for my next turn, an idea struck me. Wouldn’t it be grand to lounge on the seat like royalty, letting my brothers do the heavy lifting? Without much thought, I climbed aboard, flopping onto the seat with all the grace of a high jumper.
Whether out of rebellion or because of the sudden shift in weight, my brothers let go. The seat crashed onto the gravel road, pinning my arm beneath it. A rusty spring pierced my forearm, leaving me with a wound—and later, a scar—that would outlast our fort and even the memory of that summer day.
Here’s the thing about scars: they’re not just reminders of what happened. They’re reminders of why it happened. My scar recalls the impulsivity of my youth, the folly of expecting others to carry my burdens while I basked in comfort. It’s a small, silent witness to the cost of selfishness and carelessness.
Scars serve as markers of memory and meaning. They force us to remember what we might otherwise forget.
I’ve often wondered about the scars of Jesus Christ. After His resurrection, He appeared to His disciples, scars intact—a profound and deliberate choice. The God of the universe, who conquered death itself, chose to retain the marks of His suffering. Why? Because those scars tell a story: not just of pain, but of purpose. They speak of sacrifice, redemption, and love.
Perhaps we carry our scars into eternity as well, not as symbols of shame, but as trophies of transformation. Scars are evidence that we’ve been hurt—and that we’ve healed. They remind us of the burdens we’ve carried, the mistakes we’ve made, and the grace that has brought us through.
I don’t remember every detail of that old fort or even the car seat. But I remember the scar. And every time I see it, I remember the lesson: what you do matters. Choices have consequences. And even pain can have a purpose.
Thank you for this message, very helpful and needed!