Hidden Scars

I settled into the black swivel chair to the soothing snip of the scissors and sweet smell of salon hairspray. My hairdresser gently ran her hands through my blonde hair as we discussed the game plan for my appointment. After settling on losing a few inches and some new long layers, she washed my hair and began to cut away. I watched as the small wisps dropped to the floor around me. We spoke of all the usual things - school, family, the approaching royal wedding which I've been anxiously anticipating.

As she lifted my hair gently between her fingers and measured it towards the ceiling, she paused with a puzzled look. "You have quite a scar on the back of your head," she noted, dropping the scissors to her side for a moment.

I nodded, remembering back to the day it happened. Seven-year-old me (see the picture for a better mental image) at summer camp waiting my turn to go tubing, scratching rocks together to make "war paint", skipping from rock to rock along the shore of the lake until one rock was a little too slippery and my tiny water shoes lost traction. My poor college-age counselor scooped me up, formed a huddle with the other counselors, and soon I was on my way to the camp doctor in a jeep. A shower and a few staples in my head later, I was able to finish up my last couple days at camp and the incident was pretty well forgotten in the summer heat between trips to the pool spending time with friends.

Then it was forgotten in the craziness of getting school supplies for first grade. Then it was forgotten in the whirl of making new friends and homework. Then it was forgotten over the years and years, sports, family vacations, jobs, and life that went by. Now, thirteen years later, I hardly ever think about that day at summer camp. But sitting in my swivel chair getting my hair cut, I was reminded of this:

I still have the scar. 

That day has come and gone and many more have passed, but the scar is still there. Hidden under braids and ponytails. Not often thought of or spoken of. Unknown to those who pass by or even many who have known me for a long period of time. It is a hidden scar.

The more I think about it, the more I think we all have them.

Hidden scars.

There not always on your skin. Some of them can be mental, emotional, or relational.

Maybe someone told you they would "always ___" or "never ___" and didn't follow through. Now you have trouble trusting people and you realize there is a scar there. Maybe someone spoke cruel words to you about your appearance and you feel this persistent negativity toward yourself. Now you realize that those words were just as bad as sticks and stones and there is a scar there. Maybe a parent or someone you thought cared about you disappeared from your life and though time has passed, you know a scar is there. Some time, some way, by somebody, we have all been wounded and have scars.

They can make us embarrassed. Act out in odd or hurtful ways. Become loud and defensive or cause us to shut down and become terribly quiet.

But maybe if we realized that we all have them. We all have those hidden scars, however big or small. Maybe then we could give a little grace to each other. Instead of becoming frustrated or angry, we might try and understand the story behind the scar. Better yet, we might tell the story behind our own scars so others might feel free to share their own.

Charles Spurgeon once said, "I would go to the deeps a hundred times to cheer a downcast spirit. It is good for me to have been afflicted, that I might know how to speak a word in season to one who is weary." It is good for me to have been afflicted. It is good that I have a scar. It is good that it allows me to connect with others who have scars like mine.

So what do we do with them? Our scars.

First, we take them to the Lord and ask that we might see them through His eyes. May they never make us hard, angry, or bitter. Instead, may they cause us to be more understanding, quick to listen, and slow to speak. Then, may we have the courage to share the story behind our scars. Finally, let us find grace for others and their scars. No pointing and making fun. No pretending we didn't see it or diminishing the pain that put it there.

Just patience. 

Just listening.

Just loving. 

Just grace. 

Grace for the moments of defensiveness. Grace for the tears. Grace for the silence. Grace for the anger. And even grace for the ones who put the scars there. For they, too, have their own scars.

And when the scars seem too ugly to show or the stories seem too hard to tell, sit and let Jesus tell you the story of His own scars. He will tell you of the pain He endured for you because of His love for you. In His scars we can find grace and strength to face our own.