Scars

In the photo above you can see my incision that it is now beginning to heal. The trauma of getting that scar, twice, now, was extreme and, as you have read in this blog, I have many memories, both traumatic and good, from my time in recovery (both at the hospital and, now, at the Berry's home). It's crazy how this scar can be fading so quickly when the experience still feels so fresh.

I feel the scar and the people around me see it. It is a constant reminder of these complicated memories. Yet as the physical wound heals, fewer people now say, "oh my, what happened," or, "how did u get that scar?". The physical scar is less noticeable and far less commented on, yet my wife and I (& other family members) will always carry the emotional scars. My wife will always see the scar, whether actually visible or not, when she sees the back of my head.  For my part, I will always feel the scar.  Fortunately, we have a God who understands the memory that lives in scars.

We talk about Christ being on the cross, but that experience came with significant scars. Hanging on the cross, from the outside, seems like a wholly terrible experience, but that terrible moment was proceeded by a life that brought many blessings. The scars of Christ were not just a negative memory, but a reminder of the loving acts committed by Christ, as well. The scars of Christ are reminders of the good that came out of a bad situation.

I think that all of us are confronted by scars sometimes. We all find troubles that leave marks on us whether physical marks or emotional. It is up to us whether we will dwell on the passing negative experience or whether we will find good in the midst of angst and trouble. Christ endured the bad that we would all know the good (His Love). When we experience trouble we must look to Christ, so that through Christ's wounds, we can experience joy even in the midst of our own pain, our own wounds, our own scars.

Geodes

Song of the Week Sunday

Rev. Cindy Watson shared this video on Facebook and I felt it was worth sharing with my friends as well.  Isn't this a great song as we approach the transformation that is going to take place this Easter Sunday?  Wow.

Carrie Newcomer performs this song, "Geodes" with Gary Walters, Chris Wagoner and Mary Gaines at the Buskirk-Chymley Theatre.

Pain & Empathy

Recently I told someone that I've had a headache since February 7 and the person responded in a way that I felt they were minimizing me, "Oh, now, come on, Scott..." they said.  No.  I won't come on.  Seriously, I've had a headache since February 7.  A two centimeter (in diameter) piece of my brain was taken out and my head has hurt consistently since.  Sometimes it feels like what I'd call a "normal" tension headache and other times I find myself completely debilitated.

Usually it feels like there is a rubber band connected between my temple and the back of my head and sometimes it feels tight and "pops" with pain and other times, especially after I've taken medicine, it feels looser and less-noticable.

I say all of this not for pity, but with a point in mind.  Even before I was a pastor, my life has always seems to intersect with people who were hurting.  That's not a bad thing to me, btw, but there have been many people I have sat (or stood) with and heard words like:

"My back just always hurts"
"Every since my surgery I can't sleep"
"My sciatica keeps me from _______."

Before my own recent experience, I guess I tucked these people into my prayer list and must have thought "oh, that's too bad for them."  I could sympathize, I guess (I could feel bad for them), but I had never felt pain that wouldn't go away so I couldn't empathize.

Pain in my life has always been fleeting.  In a way, that is weird to say.  Before this surgery I might have told you that I had experienced pain, but I, now, don't think I had.  Oh sure, I have had headaches from time to time and I've had spasms, cuts, bumps, bruises and sores...   but I had never before experienced pain that wouldn't go away and pain that  doctors simply called, "expected."  Think about it: that means that there is nothing to do about it.  Pain that just "is."

What I realize is: many of the older members of my congregation, especially, know what it is to have pain that just 'is.'  Pain that is expected and pain, for which, there is nothing to be done.  Before a few months ago, I would have prayed for these prayer concerns without knowing anything of what they have felt, but now I have empathy for what these people endure.  I feel a pain inside that doesn't simply go away or subside.

I wonder if that is why Christ was so willing to die upon the cross for us?  Until God felt our human pain, until God has walked a short distance in our shoes, God could not entirely understand us:  could not entirely love us as God wished to.  Perhaps, by feeling our pain, God and humanity could dwell within one another and have wholeness in a way that we could not otherwise experience!

As we come into Holy Week and as we consider what it means for us that Jesus suffered, we need to consider what it means that we should love others as Christ loves us.  Does that mean that we must suffer as others suffer?  Does that mean that we must experience what others experience?  Does that mean, as people of faith, we must open up our hearts to feel 'the other?'

"It Is Well With My Soul"

Song of the Week Sunday

This week I went on a hunt for old hymns made new...   An old and forgotten blog TheWorshipFiles.com had just what I was looking for a hymn by Spafford/Bliss, redone by Michael bleecker and, here, covered by Jason Carroll.  I think this is a great hymn and the story behind the song is incredible.

Back story:
I found this brief retelling at:  wikipedia.org/wiki/It_Is_Well_with_My_Soul

This hymn was written after several traumatic events in Spafford’s life. The first was the death of his only son in 1871 at the age of four, shortly followed by the great Chicago Fire which ruined him financially (he had been a successful lawyer). Then in 1873, he had planned to travel to Europe with his family on the SS Ville du Havre, but sent the family ahead while he was delayed on business concerning zoning problems following the Great Chicago Fire. While crossing the Atlantic, the ship sank rapidly after a collision with a sailing ship, the Loch Earn, and all four of Spafford's daughters died. His wife Anna survived and sent him the now famous telegram, "Saved alone . . .". Shortly afterwards, as Spafford traveled to meet his grieving wife, he was inspired to write these words as his ship passed near where his daughters had died.