Plastic surgery could fix it. Time could fade it. Pants, if long enough, could conceal it.
But I want to keep it. The world finds a scar like this disfiguring, ugly.
Yet I find it beautiful, a reminder of Yahweh’s protection.
This scar, I pray, will last all my earthly days.
The scar is what’s left of my accident on Jan. 17. Just before my head-on collision on an icy highway, I was speaking the name of God, whispering the Hebrew letters of the tetragrammaton: YHVH.
Yodh. Hey. Vaw. Hey.
Believed in Jewish tradition to be too sacred to be uttered aloud, the name is often referred to as the “Ineffable.” As I drove down the highway that morning, I was in awe of how Christ changed things. I could speak the name of God, boldly. My Yahweh
I whispered His name, sang His name, prayed in His name.
That’s when the accident happened — an accident that by all accounts ended miraculously, with only minor injuries. The emergency parking brake slammed through my skin, deep into my muscle and tissue, leaving a gaping wound.
Yahweh spared my life — and He left me with a scar. It’s a tattoo of His first initial: the letter Y.
With plastic surgery, it would be easy to hide my scar. With time, it could disappear. I pray it doesn’t.
I took this photograph last week, because I fear that the “Y” is beginning to fade (though the memory of it won’t).
I show you my scar today, as a reminder of God’s protection.
We so quickly bury our scars behind facades, don’t we? Not just the physical scars, but the emotional ones, too.
Even in church — especially in church — we hide our pain. We conceal our past. We cover our hurt.
But scars are signs that healing has begun. They remind us of old wounds, but even more so, of grace and mercy and healing.
Our scars tell a story; they identify us. And when we show them, we stand in good company.
For Jesus still bears His scars — an eternal mark of love.