The Scars and the Healing

It won’t kill me. Right?

Isn’t that what “they” say?

What you don’t know won’t kill you.

I’m still breathing.

How? Because there are some things I don’t know.

I don’t know what really happened the night I was drugged and raped.

I don’t know the details of his infidelities.

I don’t know why he chose drugs and alcohol over his family.

I don’t know why my great-uncle repeatedly molested little girls.

I don’t know why my parents divorced before my first birthday.

And I don’t know why God allowed certain things to happen in my life that were deeply painful—though I don’t pretend my story is the worst one out there. Quite the opposite, actually.

Have you ever seen one of those videos where a heart-transplant recipient meets the 

donor’s family?

I searched for them on YouTube once, and I cried through nearly every one.

When the donor’s family listens to the beating heart that once belonged to their loved one—now sustaining the life of a former stranger—when gratitude collides with grief, it is holy ground. Those moments are powerful.

But imagine something else.

Imagine the donor’s family meeting a recipient who stares blankly at them and denies ever receiving a heart. The scar is there. The evidence is undeniable. But the recipient refuses to acknowledge the gift.

That was me.

For years, I downplayed every trial and every pain, determined to preserve my sunny disposition and optimistic outlook. More than once, I told friends that nothing in my past had really caused me that much pain.

But that, dear friends, was a lie.

A lie straight from the pit of hell.

It took maturity—and a good deal of humility—for me to understand that all the junk (I can’t think of a better word) I’d been through actually mattered. God had used those very events to minister to me, to shape me, to grow me.

By denying the trauma, I was unknowingly minimizing the power of God—who had carried me through every situation, not just alive, but stronger, wiser, and closer to Him.

I spent much of my life denying that I had survived things that tried to kill me.

In my imagination, I eventually met the donor’s family.

His Father, actually.

And I smiled politely and said, “It’s nice to meet you, but I’ve never really had anything bad happen to me. I never needed the heart your son donated.”

Can you imagine the pain that caused his father?

Sometimes God protects us from knowing.

Sometimes we know—but we deny the power of the story by saying, “It wasn’t that bad.”

Just because I don’t know why something happened doesn’t mean I don’t carry a scar. And pretending those scars don’t exist doesn’t serve me—or anyone else—well.

Scars matter.

They remind us that something real happened… and that God was faithful in the middle of it.

In Joshua 4:5–7 (NIV), as the Israelites crossed the Jordan into the Promised Land, Joshua instructed the people:

“Go over before the ark of the LORD your God into the middle of the Jordan. Each of you is to take up a stone on his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the Israelites, to serve as a sign among you. In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the LORD. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”

The stones taken from the middle of the Jordan—when your children ask you, “What do these stones mean?”—were meant to be reminders.

Reminders of the struggle.

The journey.

The fear.

The miracle that made it possible to cross safely to the other side.

They were, in a sense, scars.

Visible markers of where they had been and what God had done. Scars that would become catalysts for conversation. Much like a tattoo or a T-shirt with a quote on it—things that invite questions.

God didn’t say if your children ask.

He said when.

The stones would prompt curiosity, and the answers would create opportunities to tell the story—to speak of grace, mercy, and the miraculous saving power of God.

We are called to remember what God has done for us.

In Psalm 77:11–12 (NIV), the psalmist writes:

“I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will consider all your works and meditate on all your mighty deeds.”

Don’t hide your scars.

And don’t deny the pain you felt when those scars were formed.

But when someone asks you how you got the scar, resist the urge to camp out in the pain that created it. Instead, let the scar point the conversation toward the faithfulness of God—toward the miracles of long ago and the mighty deeds that carried you through.

The scar isn’t the end of the story.

It’s the proof that God gave you a new heart—and that it’s still beating. ❤️‍🩹