Oh, these jagged lines.

I am massively proud of the one-inch, itty bitty line on my right foot that has minute jagged marks surrounding it. You have to squint to see it now, but that doesn't stop me from telling the story of when I dropped a glass vase on my foot. (It's a harrowing tale, I assure you.)

Scars have a story. Scars scream that you survived. Scars have a purpose of reminding. But, oh how it hurts getting them.

Sometimes, I feel like I can feel the scars this spot is making.

My heart breaks, my mind is laid oh, so low, my legs go numb from walking in tired places, my eyes overflow with salty water, and my hands start to drop because it feels like they have been outstretched and empty for far too long.

It starts to make jagged lines on the inside. Starts to feel like permanent. And do you know what my human self craves more than anything? It begs understanding of the world. It tries to explain the scars. Tries to get someone, anyone, to understand.  It starts to feel like I’m trying to get a blind man to see the color of the sky. No matter how I explain, no matter how hard I try, there’s no understanding. There’s disappointment. There’s frustration. There’s a lot of missing it.

Do you think Jesus looks at me when I thank Him for his scars, and says, how little you understand these.

Do you think He gets frustrated because I don’t really get it all? That I do a lot of missing it? I can’t even begin to comprehend the pain?

He willingly got them knowing He was the only one who would ever wear nail marks from the world in His hands. The only one who would understand the burden of it all. He survived to show me, to prove to me, love wears permanent marks. Love bears pain. Love takes the jagged lines and knows that no one, not one, has the picture you wear. But, oh what a sweet story. What a thing to survive for the sake of love.

You have scars. You might feel completely at a loss for being understood. You may not know how to explain the way you survived. But fear not, my sweet friend. You are understood by someone far greater than I. You are explained by the one who writes your story. The one who got His scars first so He could love yours.