Earlier this year our family crossed hemispheres, from the southern tip of Africa to the northern part of Europe, for training in disciple making. Six weeks were spent in England and, upon our arrival, I was able to appreciate the inspiration in which authors like C.S. Lewis and Beatrix Potter were steeped. Golden morning mists. An array of blossoms adorning the grassy meadows. Rabbits with their quiet, early morning breakfasts. Deer on soundless strolls. The lush green landscape contrasted greatly from the dusty, earthen-colored land in which I live.
Although we went for vocational input, it was evident that the Lord wanted to bring refreshment to our hearts. Dry and weary, I think Nathan and I hadn’t realized the extent of our emptiness. Our training time also became a place of restoration and healing, a place to drink from streams of life from which we had not partaken in quite some time.
On one morning run, as I passed through trails of beauty, Holy Spirit led me to a tree. I observed the places where limbs had been severed. As I surveyed the tree’s scars I was contemplative of my own. I looked at the places that had been cut and broken, yet for all the disfigurement the tree stood tall and strong. It had been there for decades, perhaps a century. Season after season it continued to grow. Right up next to it I could see its marks, though if I stood back, taking in the fullness of its splendor, they were hardly visible. Still there, it was not the tree’s damaged parts that were the focus but its life. The Lord’s Spirit ministered to mine. He reminded me that though I had gone through difficulties that had injured my heart, I should not direct my gaze on the scars but on the One who heals them and brings me life. Scars are not all bad. It is by the very wounds of my Savior Christ Jesus that I am made whole. But with His crucifixion there is also resurrection. There are wounds and there is life, and though the two are intertwined, in Him who has conquered death Life will prevail.
Scars
Gnarled skin, rough and weathered
Renders a narrative of seasons gone by
Here you stand, ancient giant
Here I too, in the shadow of your presence
I linger at your imperfections
Tracing with eyes and with fingers
The irregular etchings
Betraying offences sustained
I bear scars of my own
Wounds from enemies
Wounds from friends cut deeper still
Lingering reminders of loyalties abandoned
Yet to stay so close
Examining old wounds
I see only a piece of who you are
Missing the grandeur of a picture larger
I step back to capture you
Magnificent, majestic
Full of life
Full of hope
Your roots go down deep, deep
And your massive limbs unfurled to the sky
Tell a story of generations past
With expectation of what lies ahead
Here you rise, ancient giant, here you endure
Endure I with you
And despite our scars– or because of them
We are stronger
