Great Grief and Deep Scars

“Grief is the price we pay for love.” Queen Elizabeth II

I looked at my arms and legs as I dressed this morning. They are a map of my life of sorts. There’s a scar on my arm where eight stitches pulled back the flesh that was ripped open during a tackle at football game at my grandparent’s farm. It’s smooth and blended, but it’s a scar nonetheless. There’s a tiny line across the base of my thumb where a glass quart jar being hand-washed broke and sliced opened my thumb requiring six stitches. There are two scars on the sides of my legs with stiche marks from bicycle mishaps on different dates. There is a scar across the side of my calf from swinging a trash bag that had a broken bottle protruding and slicing a three-inch path in my flesh. That one needed 7 stitches. Then there is the infamous scar across my buttocks that Uncle Jim never tired of teasing me about (show us your scar, Bobbie Lou). That scar resulted from me standing in a porcelain sink to access the mirror as a six-year-old. The whole sink broke into two pieces, neatly slicing my butt in the fall. Amidst blood and carnage, nine stitches brought it back together. Scars faded and blended, a map of sorts of the story of my life.

But the most prominent scar is ugly, raw, and jagged. No trip to the doctor’s office for stitches to make it pretty again. No smooth edges or fading lines. It is what they would call a keloid. Raise red and purple. Screaming with a voiceless suffering. It was the ripping of half of me away. It was the tearing of his soul from mine abruptly with no precision. No novocaine. No stitches. No pretty healing, Rand, my love, no time will hide that scar. I do not want the scar of your leaving to look covered. Easy. Gotten over. Stitched up and functional again. Some scars are meant to remain.

My husband was the dream of my heart all of my life. Some people look at me like I am crazy when I say that as a young child and a young woman, I had a vision of him—dressed in a brown flannel shirt, walking along the edge of the field that held our garden. My heart saw him. Hair to his shoulders. Blue jeansclad with that confident walk. Among the trees. Where he belonged. Somehow, my spirit whispered, “This is him. He is yours.” And I loved him even then.

Life took me on many detours. Many left scars, but they healed. When Randy and I met that Christmas Eve eve of 1976, I was nursing the open wounds of a relationship ending that was not meant to be (that’s a story for another telling). I saw him leaning against a counter in Session’s Department Store, where I wrapped Christmas presents for jolly shoppers while I nursed a broken heart. When our eyes connected, something supernatural happened. The Lord began to stitch up the tear in my heart. Quickly. Neatly. “This is the man you will marry,” He whispered. Like Sarah, I laughed, but somehow I knew. This was my other half. We were married in 9 months, and I was whole for the first time. I had found my long-haired man in the brown flannel shirt and blue jeans walking at the edge of the field. It was him. And we belonged to each other.

Followed 47 years of loving, growing, laughing, crying- but always clinging to each other and the King we loved. Forty-seven years of life, and I naively thought it somehow would never end. But it did. Abruptly, without warning, Randy was taken to heaven, and my soul lay bare- ripped- deep-jagged-bleeding. I was shocked, shaken, assaulted.

Now let it be known: I have learned a love, peace, and comfort from my King that I never knew could exist this side of heaven. I do not mourn as those without hope; in fact, the realness of life and life abundant beyond the shadow of this earth has become more real to me than the life in front of my face. God has met me. God has touched and comforted and spoken life. I go forward towards His kingdom and my Randy.

But the scar remains. Mine are scars that only great love can create. Then, I am reminded of the most precious scars of all. Scripture says, my name and your name are written in the palm of His hand. Written in scar tissue. Thomas, put your finger in the scars on my hands. Put your hand into my side.. Touch me, handle my scarred flesh.

I love that. The scars are ragged and real. Jesus wasn’t afraid of his scar being seen. He invites us to plunge our fingers in them, to handle them. They are not pretty scars. They are forged from love and at the price of great pain. They are keloids.

There was one night as I sat in new aloneness that I wrestled with God. Where was he? Would I be with him again? How could we be torn apart? Why now? Why so soon? How could this have happened to Randy? To us? Had I caused it? Could I have prevented it? How could I bear going on without him? 

“It was his time, daughter.”

“What?”

Then, my Father said something that changed the trajectory of my grief.

“I knew on your wedding day that this exact day would be his time to come home. Would you have changed your mind about marrying if you had known this day was ordained?”

A sob racked my throat. “No, Daddy.”

“Your love is not ending. It is only the beginning. Will you trust me?”

“Yes, Lord. Where else could I go? You alone have the Words of Life.”

“And I have Randy. He is flourishing. Can you trust me with your days?”

“Yes, Lord. I will trust You.”

Scars can speak of accidents and encounters. These fade with time. These are stitched up and made neat. My body tells a story from the childhood stitches to the c-section, the rotator cuff- the double knee replacement. All marking places in my journey

But scars can speak of love so deep that they demand great faith to face the tearing away. Trust is all that brings life out of the rending. The scar remains is an ugly keloid. Ugly, but a testament to the love that must trust the King with the outcome of the pain. It speaks of the one who will carry the only scars to be seen in heaven.

Like Him, I will not shy away from the wounds left by great love. I will trust our King to bring life from them. I will invite others to touch them. To handle them. To see that life can come out of the scarring. But please don’t ignore them. As you walk with me, you walk with all of my scars- those with fading stitches and the keloids. As you embrace me, you embrace all of my scars- those stitched and fading and the keloids- the kind that only great love can leave. The keloids show the love and mercy of the Father, who bids us to trust Him. That is the gift of the scarring—trust in the One who will wear His scars forever so that our scars can bring life, too.

Yes, Daddy, I will trust your nail scarred hand in all of my journeying- keloids and all. I trust You. There, and only there, I find life. Do you carry Keloids? How is the Father bringing beauty out of the scarring?