Staffs Made of Scars

Heart racing, I rest my hands on my sides, fighting to keep them in place as the sweat encourages my palms to slide right off and sway tiredly besides me in utter defeat. I bend down to grab my towel and instantly feel the pain shooting up my right hip. Annoyed, I crouch in an attempt to stretch out the irritated joint, but hear only cracks in the other hip and groan out of pure exhaustion. Not the type of exhaustion that physical therapy, a healthy diet, and a good night’s sleep will cure, though. I’m talking about the exhaustion where you stare at a simple algebra equation for five minutes that would normally take you a few seconds to solve, the exhaustion where you drive to your destination but don’t remember passing by your favorite coffee shop, the exhaustion where you look in the mirror, see the bags under your eyes, and wonder “Oh my God, how did I get here?”

I think it’s fair to say that two years ago, none of us could have imagined life today in August of 2021. We’ve all bought bulk orders of disposable masks and hand sanitizer, watched political debates turn into vicious duels between countrymen & women, and read about the devastating events happening in every corner of the globe, from further conflict in Afghanistan to the destructive earthquake in Haiti. Even on U.S. soil, a quick glance at the news is sure to bring to light another clash between parties or gut-wrenching Covid-19 death tolls. While I believe these events have impacted us all on some level and that we desperately need to pray for our leaders, family, and neighbors on all ends of the political spectrum, I believe that these events merely pulled back the curtain concealing many of our insecurities that before, we could just stuff in a box, throw in the back of the closet, and act like never existed. Yet when you’re forced to spend endless hours at home with no date on the calendar circled as an escape, no party planned as a distraction, no busy work filling up that empty space, suddenly, you’re not who you thought you were. Suddenly, you see yourself for the very first time without the makeup, the trophies, the degrees, the titles, the praise of others, the pretty lights accenting all of your strengths and hiding all of your weaknesses. Suddenly, you’re standing face to face with just you. And that’s a vulnerable place to be.

Now vulnerability doesn’t have to be terrifying, but it is oftentimes, isn’t it? When I was sixteen, I blew out my knee playing soccer and had to have reconstruction surgery in the hopes of playing once more. Before operating, they needed me to get an MRI, so for thirty-five minutes I laid on a hard table in a thin hospital gown, almost completely encased in a plastic and metal tube as a humming-like-thunder drowned out my Pandora soundtrack, all while having my hips and knees constantly being rearranged by the lab technician into positions that closely resembled a New York City Ballet Dancer’s routine. I am not a New York City Ballet Dancer, nor can I even begin to comprehend the amazing (and sometimes painfully-looking) moves they can accomplish. The room was freezing, my knee was just slightly smaller than a dodgeball, and all I could think was, “How can this be happening right now? How can I ever recover?” Like the quarantine, though, this injury took away a key ingredient in the recipe of my identity, and as any good baker knows, baking is an exact science; a “close-enough” substitute will never make the cake rise. The recipe must be revamped, remodeled, and recreated in order to come out a mouthwatering treat, and sometimes that means removing sentimentally beloved ingredients and changing the end creation entirely.

“God isn’t afraid of your sharp edges that may seem quite risky to others. He doesn’t pull back. He pulls you close.”

~ Lysa TerKeurst

I’m laying on the floor of my living room, surrounded by my Bible and the study that brought me back to Jesus. I flip through the pages, feeling the spots where my tears landed, reading my annotations and the sentences I highlighted, remembering how scared I was then and how different I am now. My life isn’t what I thought it’d be two years ago. I thought I’d be back in soccer, I thought I’d have a scholarship lined up, I thought I’d be pursuing a degree in art history and live out the rest of my days in my hometown, in silence and in shame. But now, all I can do is shake my head and praise God – for His faithfulness, for His mercy, for His love for me and for my life. Yahweh’s plans shatter everything we thought we ever knew about Him, and even though those first few steps out of the glass cage are brutal and make you want to run back into the safety of your cell, don’t. He pulled you out for a reason. And He has a tribe of friends, family, loved ones, therapists, counselors, and soulmates just waiting to take your hand on this life-affirming journey.

When I starting telling people about my knee injury, the vast majority of responses consisted of “We’re praying for God to fully heal you!” While the gesture was sweet and well-meant, it was (and is) unrealistic and set me up for a world of hurt when my surgeon sat down and told me I’ll always have something wrong due to this injury, whether that be a swollen knee cap, snapping hips, or random ankle cramps. We live in a broken world where sin happens and our bodies break down. I will never have a “normal” body according to societal standards, and I’m okay with that, because “normal” is just a construct. When Jesus said He overcame the world (John 16:33), He didn’t destroy the Roman Empire and establish a Jewish-Christian government with Jerusalem at its center. He set us free by taking all of our transgressions, all of our grief, all of our shame, and all of our loss up on a cross and dying in total isolation from God. And through that sacrifice, sin does not define us; shame has no say in where we’ll go, grief and loss are a cloak we can cast off so our skin is exposed to the beauty of the light. But the scar remains. We’ll always remember how those moments felt, yet we’ll be able to push pass them into the present. I may always have to stretch extensively before every run, ice my knee after every hike, and constantly take off-days in order to give her the rest she needs, but she’s mine. My knee is mine, and I’ll travel this life with her as a constant companion along for the ride. She’s my budding staff, God’s permanent reminder to me that He is faithful to keep His promises despite the unfaithfulness of His people. And my prayer for you is that He’ll show you yours, too.