Remnants of Beauty.

They are all ugly. And worse, they take forever to fade away. Sometimes they itch even, and grow to become grotesque, infiltrating tentacles which dig deep into skin. Most of us hide them-underneath sleeves and thin clothing. Few wear them as badges of honour. Even fewer have reason to.

Scars.

For a long time I noticed one on both my forefeet, more prominently on my left foot, but could never figure out how they came about. They were just tiny things, seeming to appear without rhyme nor reason. I neither hit that part of my foot against anything, nor chaff them against my shoes. Nonetheless, day after day, over weeks during the time I struggled with depression and fought Ed, the scars mysteriously grew deeper and more obvious.

I never knew why.

And then one night, I awoke in the dark with absolutely no feeling in both my legs. It was as if they had been lopped off by sneaky leprachuans in the night. In my exhaustion from tears, work and talking to God, I had fallen asleep on the hard wooden floor on my knees. As I got up, I saw blood. I finally found out- that the scars on my feet were from nights crying, listening, talking to God on my knees, and the weight of my body bore down upon the bony prominences, the way my burdens bore down on God’s shoulders.

Scars. Just tiny ones, but they're still there.


I almost feel like I’ve entered into a new season. With the love and encouragement of many of you, my parents, friends and special angels, I want to share with you the good news that I've been making good progress. I remember the utterly bleak mornings and black nights earlier in the year and only marvel in gratitude at how far we’ve come together.

I say We, because I never walked alone. My parents, and friends loved, cared for and supported me- even in times they could not understand. They never stopped trying, never gave up and even now, are still trying because the depth of their love runs that deep. Most of all, God was always there. Always there, always understanding.

The worst is over, but not the journey. The journey still runs on, in glorious, honey-glazed sunshine, because of the new life without Ed the Professional People will help me to rebuild. And my tears ran down at church last week, even today, as I thought about the laid-down love my family and friends extended to me all this while. All in the little things- in the way you all surprised me on my birthday, the way you always considered where we were lunching when we met up without me having to worry, the way you travelled all the way back to accompany me unexpectedly, the way many of you were there- in deed and not just talk.

And I often wonder if I would look back upon this in shame or in pride. Stigmas don’t change overnight.

But I choose neither. For I know for sure God allowed this for a reason- I have grown and learnt so much in this season, become a person, more whole, healthy and able to reach out to others and to connect with God.

Often, everyday in fact, I look at my scars, and my knee-jerk reaction is always one of cringing. Don't they all bring back bad memories? My eleven-stitch scar on my elbow since I was five brings back the same vivid memories, even after all these years... of my daredevil recklessness, that at-all-cost eagerness to win at police-and-thief, the devastating crash to the floor at my best friend's house (he was four and proposed to me shortly after I was discharged from hospital), my favourite toy gun flinging out of my hand across the corridor, the excruciating pain, the manic panic...

But with every story of grief, struggle and suffocation, comes also the ending of breakthrough.

For the same scar brings back memories also of the zoo-animal sling I picked for my cast, the many precious signatures I accumulated from friends, the many "wah, what a brave little girl you are!" encouragements from aunties and uncles... and the easy identification it provided when I forgot which was my left, and right- "See Jia, this scar here means this is your left hand. L-E-F-T. Left," my sister would tell me.

It's ironic to know how it is not the visible physical scars which are hardest to wear, but those worn in our hearts, which bring us shame, reproach and guilt.

But we forget, that scars are scars, and every one has the same story of pain, and yet praise, too.

Pain, because it hurt so much. And praise, in knowing that God brought us through, that we survived the battle, and came out stronger for it.

Scars. Why do people call them Ugly.

Indeed, scars may not be the prettiest things, especially not if they're found on an area we wished were baby-smooth, for all to see. But while they remind us of the painful processes we walked through, they also mark the battles we fought valiantly and the love of God which guided and saw us through.

Scars. They are our marks of victory, badges of triumph, flags of celebration.



Ugly? Why, not quite.


It's not easy, however. I should know. There is always that crimson embarrassment, that lavender shyness and turquoise envy at someone else, when one recounts the story of his own scar. Ed. Depression. Even this very space is a scar, bearing the mark of all my weaknesses, pitfalls and dark-valley times. Many times I meet people who've visited this space before seeing me face to face, and that naturally, on a human level, unnerves me a little. We all want a darlie-white first impression, don't we? But I tell myself we live for a reason bigger than ourselves, and if our scars can bring hope to another, bring glory to God, then perhaps, they are worth carrying, worth revealing, worth celebrating.

There is a fine line between shame and humility, and I believe this is where we make or break ourselves. We can choose to be ashamed, and continue to live under a cloak of reproach, or embrace our experiences as opportunities for growth, as times of learning humility, as testimonies of God's love for us- for seeing us through, for building us up, for being... Real.

Scars.

I call them remnants of beauty, for remembering the goodness of God's love. We needn't hide them.

That tiny scar on my left forefoot tells the story of the nights of weeping, the feet-breaking numbness from kneeling... but also the intimacy and reality of God to me, that invisible, enveloping presence from up above, and my eventual recovery, healing from a journey of faith- blind faith.

Scars. We can wear them with honour. It's not easy, I know. I don't pretend to be someone else when people who meet me tell me they know my Story. I always smile back, always.

Scars. Our evidence of God with us.

For we can hold on to that promise, that when we become bone and ash, and dirt and dust, and find ourselves in Paradise in a Perfect Place, we will see that the journey was worth it, was necessary to make us who we became. And on that day of total gratitude and inexplicable admiration for those remnants of beauty, we shall, paradoxically, find ourselves completely restored, without a hint of blemish, perfect.

For in heaven, they say, only one Person bears all our scars. Because of Him, we are free, finally.

" Surely He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows...

But He was pierced for our transgressions...

and by His wounds we are healed."

-Isaiah 4-5