There’s a scar across the pad of my right thumb—a jagged line in the center of my finger print. It healed slightly off kilter, the swirls and loops of my fingerprint not always lining up the way they once did. When I’m feeling thoughtful or bored, sometimes I find myself rubbing the nail of my middle finger across the ridge of the scar. Though the story behind it is no more special than a sharp and mishandled pineapple can lid, it marks me all the same.
A year ago, I woke in the dark of early morning, nursed my two tiny babies, and got up to prepare for all the wonderful friends who would soon be arriving to help us pack our delightfully small Fort Collins home into a truck, and then wave goodbye. Last year found me in the midst of a season that had torn its way through me, literally and figuratively. Relationships rent by betrayal in our church community. My trust destroyed by an abuse of authority. My hope at a beautiful and redemptive birth with my twins shattered into unrecognizable shards by more severe birth trauma than I ever could have imagined myself withstanding.
As I rose that morning to prepare for a day of packing, (but no heavy lifting for me, as I was still recovering from my c-section), I wrapped myself in the support of my postpartum belly band, and determined to stay hydrated. Every day over those first few weeks, as I wrapped my belly for another intense day of taking care of our twins as well as our three older children, plus packing—I thought of those words from the Psalm 147:3.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
I always thought that “binding” was a weird way to take care of wounds. Some other translations use the word “bandages” instead. But it wasn’t until I discovered the comfort of my deep wounds being bound that I understood this meaning more fully. When you have a c-section, they cut through eight layers. Your abdominal muscles are brutally separated and your core muscles are totally destabilized. The first time you get out of bed post-surgery, you feel like your organs might all fall out of you body. This was not my first c-section, but this was my first time using a belly band. In the hospital our angel of a nurse Jessa, helped bind up my belly before I got out of bed, and the added stability of that band was incredible. My wounded body was being held together—and with it, I was too.
Five days after our twins were born, Brecklen, our midwife turned doula, came to visit us at home. The moment she walked in my bedroom door, I fell into her arms and began sobbing. Without saying a word, my husband came and stood behind me and placed his gentle hands across my scar to brace it—because when you have a 10 inch incision across your lower belly, even the shaking of sobs is enough to rattle your insides in a way that is extremely painful.
He offered me his support in such a needed physical way, I still haven’t been able to shake the impact of his tenderness. I remember thinking—this is it. This is how Christ loves His Bride.
As I said, it was a season marked by deep wounds. Some seasons do that to us don’t they? Some seasons leave us scarred in ways we never imagined—but that doesn’t mean we won’t ever heal.
Now in the evenings, when all the children are asleep, I lay in my bed with some lotion or oil, and spend time massaging the wound that I wish weren’t mine. I trace the jagged lines of an anxious surgeon’s knife. I massage the tissues above and below the scar, kneading them and soothing them with my gentle attention. When I first started doing this, it was very hard for me. I felt the nausea welling up in my throat as I caught a glimpse of the ugly scar as I stepped out of the shower, and massaging it at first brought up all the feelings of fear and powerlessness that I had felt as sharply as the knife in that moment.
But as I have spent time with my scar, with the part of me that was just as wounded physically as I have been mentally, I have slowly began to heal. As much as I wish it weren’t true, I’ve found that you have to spend time with your wounds in order to heal them. And as I think about our God who “binds up” the wounds of the brokenhearted, I am struck by how much time, attention, and tenderness that takes.
He is a God who knows how deep the wound goes. He knows every layer cut, every stability, and strength that feels irreparably destroyed. He knows how to bind up so that we can be comforted as we heal. He lends us his support, in the form of a large hand along our scars so we can cry without hurting ourselves further. He never tells us to get over it or to “heal already.” No matter how impatient I have been with my own healing journey, God has never been impatient with me. He knows that the process is part of it. He isn’t in a hurry, and he doesn’t ask me to be either.
He also knows that healing still leaves us with scars. Unlike the shiny church of the American Dream where bigger is better and the miraculous “as though it never happened” stories are touted as the greatest forms of success, He sees my trust issues, and yours, and He is not ashamed of us. He knows the ways trauma has impacted our brains—and while his ultimate desire is to see us fully healed of the impact of every brokenness, he doesn’t rush us along. Instead, he woos me gently back to himself with quiet sunrises and moments of pure joy. He offers me his support, and is endlessly gracious with me.
The scars leave us changed, and different. Like my off kilter thumb print—I will never be the way I once was, but that doesn’t make me any less beautiful. Instead of perfection, I am left with a beauty created by an incredible redemption. And the same is true for you.
There is beauty in being bound up by this good shepherd. There is a tenderness in his care for our wounded selves that will stay with us long after the injuries have healed. And like His own scars, left as a testimony to his love for us even after His glorious resurrection, I believe our scars tell stories of love too. Just look—just listen. Spend time with them. Let them tell their truth of where you’ve been, and where you’re going, and let God remind you of where you’re going next. A place where “all our scars are understood.”**
I was triggered by something last weekend. It’s still super hard sometimes. But the sorrow and anger flowed over me as I stood crying in the shower. I heard God whisper to me, “You will see this redeemed.” I don’t fully know how. But I’ve seen glimpses in the tender care which I am learning to receive, from God and from others. The kind of care that marks you on a soul level—more deeply than a scar ever could.
**A lyric from the bridge of Mercy Me’s ‘The hurt and the healer.’
Thankful for your insight through such beautiful words - really resonated with my heart. Thanks for sharing with tenderness and vulnerability, which encourages me to do the same.
At times we want to give up, and your insight gives us the nudge we need to keep on going, with the grace God gives us to never give up.. thank you for that nudge..