For years, I wouldn’t wear shorts.
It could be 104 outside and physical activity was required, but Rhonda would be in jeans. The scars that had deformed my leg at age 15 from a motorcycle accident were too ugly, and I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
Fast forward just a few years, and I had a difficult time sharing that I had been pregnant before marriage. The scars that had deformed my reputation were too ugly, and I was uncomfortable in my own story.
Fast forward several more years and the mask that I wore to cover the ugly scars of my life became too heavy to bear, but it wasn’t until that mask was removed, partially by me, partially by those concerned family and “friends” in my Christian world who felt it was their duty to unmask me, that I began to see my scars as part of my rescue.
A favorite writer/blogger of mine, Jennifer Dukes Lee, wrote yesterday about Jesus and the paralyzed man who was lowered through the roof and Jesus’ response to this man. I had never heard this story explained the way she did, when Jesus said, “Stand up, pick up your mat, and go home!” (Mark 2:11)
I needed this.
Some of my scars have been wounds of my own doing. Some of my scars are wounds from others. All of them leave an indelible mark to be carried, like that mat, forever.
I am grateful for Jennifer’s insight. I need to keep my mat, share my scars. Someone needs to know they are not alone. Someone needs to know that survival isn’t a myth. My scars do not mean I failed. They mean I am healed.