Scar-stories

I watched my mom today.  Scars were sitting in a chair, out in the wind blowing.  Still and quiet.  Watching the HOPE garden.  Was she looking for HOPE?  For LIFE?

I knew why she sat.  And probably only her and I do know.

Now we have similar scar-stories, my mom and I.

Scars came in the mail two years ago.  Scathing. Scripted. Familiar penmanship.  

Honestly Lord, I thought it was GOOD news, after all, on the day of mom coming home--scary heart procedure under her belt. 

Words tore a hole in my soul; a bottomless pit, searing hole.  That was it's intent, I'm certain.  It has left a scar.

Two years have slammed by and no faces to help ease the grief.  To see a loved ones face in theirs. 

All communication told to cease. 

All.

Scars are ugly.

My scar-story is this:  God knows scars.
He bore scars-- for me.

On that day two years ago--

He wept with me.

Now?

He has healed me of bitterness.

Anger.

Wanting revenge. 

Now?

He has made me wait.

Will healing ever come?

I want it to.

For mom's sake more than mine.

You are a God of reconciliation.

I place my trust and hope in You alone.

A box lies under my bed.

Of cards.
For every birthday.

Every special event. 

I will not forget. 

Ever.

My hands touch paper faces
sealed in pictures on the frig,
wall and buffet.

I pray for blessings.
Not curses.

Scars ugly become beauty in the hands of Jesus.
Marred souls become soft, pliable, willing.
Time does not heal.

God does.

I am not perfect.
I cause scars too.

This is not about me.

Or the one who licked two stamps.

Scars are about tracing His.
My Savior's Feet.
 My Lord's Hands.
The sinless sacrifice's Side.

God flesh scarred by human hands.


"Reach here your finger, and see My hands;
and reach here your hand and put it into My side;
and be not unbelieving, but believing."  
John 20:27

Believing,
Bonnie