Scars of Redemption

I doubt any of you could see the faded marks on my chest if I didn’t point them out, but I can still see them because I know where to look. I look quite often. I call these marks my love wounds, gifts from my youngest grandchild.

It’s unintentional, for sure, this habit nineteen month old Connor Maher has of playing with your skin while you’re holding him close. He doesn’t pinch. He just likes to, well, fiddle with you, for lack of a better word. Connor doesn’t understand the scratches his baby fingernails leave behind.  

As strange as this is going to sound, it’s been sort of sad to watch those marks fade. Connor lives in Texas. This grandmother doesn’t get to see him as often as she would like. I miss them, all of them. Watching the marks fade on my chest just reminds me of the days that have passed and keep me in a state of anticipation about seeing them again. In short, the scars are special because of the one who left them there.

Does that not remind you of another set of love wounds? Someone else with scars in His hands and His feet, with wounds to His brow, His back, and His side? It’s been two thousand plus years since our sins marred the body of Jesus Christ and, Praise God, they haven’t faded. The Holy Scriptures tell us that one day we will look upon that blessed body that was pierced for you and for me and what a glorious day that will be. But consider, for now, this blessed thought. Today, when Jesus looks at those scars that will never fade He sees the ones He died to save. His wounds are special because of those who left them there. It’s okay if you need to shout. I have and I will. Praise the Lamb who gladly bears the scars of redemption!

Hugs, Shellie