As a child, I took pride in my most prominent scar, a wicked looking one on my right wrist. The pains I endured to reach that point still haunt me, and my mother. Yet the lessons I learned from that day are invaluable because of God's grace flowing within my family and the community.
My scars remind me of pain, yes, but more importantly scars remind me of a life worth living. A life of friendly banter, of sibling play, of parental guidance, of spousal intimacy, of sacrifice, of endurance, of forgiveness, of reconciliation, of restoration. Most importantly, the scars of my life remind me of God's powerful healing grace working not only in my body but also through everyone who has ever loved me and everyone I have ever loved and still love today.
This might not be theologically sound, but when I see the Blessed Sacrament, I see the scar tissue of Christ. I see the scars He surely had as a young boy and as a young man. Ultimately I do see the scars from the Cross. Mystically I see His wounds healed, which reveal to me The Resurrection. Wow, I kneel before Him amazed. God himself stands proud to show us His scars. This is so powerful to me, for He is like me or I am like Him in this small yet significant way. The Host reveals to me a life of indescribable Sacrifice, Mercy, and Love, a life beyond human comprehension. Truly the scars of our own lives can reveal to us too a life of wonder and beauty.
