Scars

           My legs, arms and face are heavy sprinkled with markings; Markings of adventures, falls, and hurts. A scar between my toes where I stepped on glass while treading through the Willamette River, a large bump on my inner thigh where I got a splinter, and later stiches, because of wooden tree swing, and teeth marks on my tongue where as a child I bit down forcefully while riding over railroad tracks, all ticking a spot on the timeline of my existence.  

           

            Although they leave a permanent trace on my body, I don’t remember where the majority of my scars came from, events so insignificant they didn’t leave a whisper in my memory. I do, however, have three small recently formed scars on my abdomen. While these wounds have marked my skin, they have also penetrated deeper. They have scarred my soul. 

           

            There was a heartbeat growing stronger everyday inside of me. A deeply desired and precious life forming in my womb, only to be discovered as ectopic and removed, along with a physical piece of me, because both threaten my life.  How do I form words to explain the scars in my inner most being from such an event?  How do I not drown in the pain and sorrow? The depth of my sadness, oh what darkened pit.

            I recall the gloom surrounding me the morning of my surgery. I sat in the shower crying out to God. These laments weren’t of questioning why. They weren’t angry shouts to an unfair God. My cries weren’t even petitions to save my baby. I was prostrated in the corner of the shower, water streaming on my naked body, asking God to hold me. To hold me as I was falling into the pit.

           

            It really bothers me that when talking about trails and tribulation, people claim that God never gives us more than we can handle. I’ve heard this often and have even quoted it myself. However, this is a misinterpretation of 1 Corinthians 10:13 which the NIV reads as so, “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.” Paul is talking about temptations. This verse doesn’t speak to my anguish. It doesn’t sooth the sting of loss. It can’t help me when I am in the depths of the depth.

            Plus, I’ve always been a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” type of person. When life would throw me a curveball or during difficult seasons in life, I would cry in hiding, take a large breath  (most likely compartmentalize) and move forward. I’m pretty proud of the fact that I’ve come so far in life, despite the trails and baggage that tried to hold me back. I believe I’m not the only one who behaves this way. In fact, I think that the church encourages this behavior (and by “church”, I mean us… because WE ARE the church). We are uncomfortable with deep sorrows and pain that causes public weeping and gnashing of teeth. We want people leaving their baggage at the church door and appearing happy while sitting in the pews. Or at least that is the general feeling we get since it is so few and far between when we are completely honest about our currently sufferings.

           

           So when I couldn’t quickly get over all the loss I’ve felt this past year, I was a bit ashamed. I was ashamed that I still cry because I miss my Papa. Frustrated because the suicide of an uncle and death of a cat follow me like a dark cloud. Depressed because I am wallowing in my deep lonely pit after loosing my baby. How am I supposed to move forward? If the verse in Corinthians wasn’t talking about trial and tribulations, does that mean that God will give us more than we can handle? Probably. What good is God’s love, mercy and grace to us if we can handle everything on our own? What purpose would it serve for Jesus to become human if it weren’t to give us an example? 

            As I’ve been in my pit, I’ve decided to do some devotional readings on grief. I can’t wallow forever; I’m not a pig (although they can be cute!). In my readings I’ve come across many quotes. I love this excerpt from Nicholas Wolterstoff’s book Lament for a Son because it helped me realize that God understands my suffering. Not only does He understand it, but has felt it. He can empathize.

            “God is not only the God of the sufferers but the God who suffers. The pain and fallenness of humanity have entered into his heart. Through the prism of my tears I have seen a suffering God… And great mystery: to redeem our brokenness and lovelessness the God who suffers with us did not strike some    mighty blow of power but sent his beloved son to suffer like us, through his suffering to redeem us from suffering and evil. Instead of explaining our suffering God shares it.” (Pg. 81) 

How cool (I know, lame word choice) is it to think, know, and feel that God isn’t shaming you for sitting in your pit of darkness. He isn’t lecturing you on how you need to be stronger. He doesn’t yell, “shake it off” and expect you to make your way out of the depths. He isn’t even offering his hand to pull you out. God gets into your pit with you. He shares it with you.

           

            Last Friday I led the Tabacundo women’s ministry class. Since my Spanish is still limited, I led a short devotional class and did a fun craft out of toilet paper rolls (yay women’s ministry!). As I was preparing my thoughts about the Easter story and the significance the symbol of the cross is to me, I realized something. I wasn’t just talking about the Easter story: Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection. I was sharing my story. The Easter story IS my story. It is all of ours.

            I think about Jesus’ sufferings: physical and emotional wounds, the betrayal of close friends, the public humiliation of being put on a cross with criminals, and ultimately death.  And gosh, when I write them out, my issues pale in comparison. However, my scars still hurt and have no less significance in my life. I believe the point isn’t to make my suffering seem less. The point is to have a friend along side me, a friend to endure the Friday and Saturday in my pit.            

            Jesus’ story doesn’t end at the cross; therefore my story doesn’t end with me lost in my pit. The story, my story, our story, ends on Sunday. It ends in resurrection. So from within the dark, God raised me. He whispered to me “Христос воскрес” and I replied, “Воистину воскрес.” (This is something I heard throughout my whole childhood. It is a traditional Russian Christian/Orthodox greeting on Easter. Someone will say, “Jesus has risen” and you reply, “Truly He has risen”.)

            So if God can raise the dead, why couldn’t He raise a marriage from the brink of divorce, a strained relationship, or a spiritually dead person? Why can’t he raise me from the edge of my despair? He can and He does. Despite our hardships, pain, and “deaths” we endure, we can rejoice because Jesus rose from the dead. Amen! He gets the last word, and that word is LIFE. God brings life from the grave.

            Truly He has risen! My pain my resurface from time to time, but it no longer bears the sting it once had. Truly He has risen and with Him, He has raised me from my brokenness. I still bear the scars of my wounds. However, so did Jesus after His resurrection. His scars bore witness to the fact that He was indeed who He said he was, Christ Son of God and Savior. My scars bear witness to the fact that I have walked with Him and we share the story.