I don’t suppose anyone else noticed it. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned it.
The pastor was talking. Something about things the disciples misunderstood about Jesus.
I think that’s what it was. I was paying attention. I was.
But, looking down as he spoke, I noticed them. The threads. The ones hanging from the hem on the right sleeve of my shirt. It wasn’t just one or two, either.
The whole edge of the sleeve was frayed, with white strings dangling like the fringe around the shade of grandma’s old table lamp.
I don’t remember what the pastor said now. I do remember looking quickly from my right arm to the left, only to find more frayed edges.
It is one of my favorite short-sleeved shirts, but I will never be seen in it again. Years of wear, of putting on and taking off, of raising my hands in joyful triumph and of shaking my fists in angry frustration, have taken their toll on the woven cloth and left it weak and fragile.
It has lost its integrity.
No longer do the crisscrossed threads, woven over and under, keep their place. No longer is there a sharp crease at the edge of the sleeve, a clear boundary between fabric and skin.
It has lost its integrity.
I stealthily ran my finger around the circumference of each sleeve, to try and hide the errant threads. Pulling the sleeves tight against my biceps, I hoped no one would notice.
They may have. Or not. It doesn’t matter.
The Lovely Lady will remove the buttons, tossing them into a jar—why, I’m not sure— and the once-favored garment will find itself in the trash bin, come trash pickup day.
Well? I can’t very well go around in a shirt with no integrity, now can I?
When last I wrote, it was scars. Today, a lack of integrity. Both hidden. Both needing to be exposed to the light of day.
They are not the same—scars and lost integrity. Somehow though, we punish folks for both, blaming the injured as much as we do the dishonest.
But, I want to make this clear—crystal clear: Grace suffices for both.
My pocket was vibrating. We were most of the way through Eternal Father, Strong to Save when the distraction began. Ignoring the momentary buzzing, I bumbled my way through the end of the piece.
I don’t use my phone during orchestra rehearsal. Usually, I don’t. But you know—my house could have been burning or an intercontinental ballistic missile might have been heading our way— so, as soon as our conductor turned her attention to the violins, helping them to find the pitch which they seemed to have lost during the last piece, I checked my messages.
One was a reminder that I had promised to go to coffee with another member of the orchestra at nine o’clock, right after we finished the rehearsal. The other was from another friend, inviting me to join him and a third friend at ten o’clock at a different coffee shop.
It was cutting it close (and there was a danger of caffeine overdose), but I snuck my phone onto the music stand and surreptitiously sent a return message saying I would try to be there.
I hope no one will squeal on me to the director.
Friends in this world are hard to come by. Friends who will take the time to invite a grumpy old guy such as I to coffee are even harder to find.
Time spent among such friends is never wasted. Never.
I met with my red-headed tuba-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.
Then I met with the preacher and his/my guitar-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.
All in all, the two encounters were probably the most important two hours I spent in the whole day. They were completely uneventful. By that I mean there were no important decisions made, no actions taken, not even any subjects of any great significance discussed.
Did I say they were completely uneventful? That’s not quite accurate. There were two things that happened, which have had me thinking for two days. The first occurred near the end of my time with my friend from the orchestra.
An acquaintance, who knew both of us, wandered by on his way out of the restaurant and took a moment to stop and talk with us. As we wondered aloud how he was doing, he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Let me show you something.”
My friend and I exchanged quizzical glances. I can’t speak for my friend, but people don’t normally undress in public while I’m talking with them.
We needn’t have worried.
He just wanted to show us the scar.
The scar from his open-heart surgery a few months ago went from just below his ribs up to the top of his chest. He told us (in colorful terms) about his previous symptoms and the surgery, as well as its aftermath. It was good that we had finished our coffee and buns already.
I only mention the event because the other thing that happened was very much like it.
I arrived at the second venue for coffee consumption just a few minutes after the agreed-upon time and grabbed my third cup of coffee in the morning before sitting down with my two friends.
Within minutes, the guitar player was unbuttoning his shirt. Seriously.
“Let me show you something.”
His scar was horizontal, not vertical. Just below his collarbone, the three-inch incision was not completely healed and it looked tender.
The pacemaker/defibrillator has only been in his body for a short time, but he joked and dismissed it as lightly as if it were of no consequence at all. We knew better but didn’t dwell on it.
Two men, within a quarter-hour of each other, had unbuttoned their shirts to show me something I would never have seen otherwise.
What a curious thing!
It was almost as if there was a message I needed not to miss.
There was.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
How many people do I see in a day? Ten? Fifty? A thousand? I suppose it depends on the day and the places to which I go.
Still, if inside of fifteen minutes, two men had shown me their scars, how many do you suppose I pass every day—every single day—who have scars they don’t show me?
How many people are walking around hiding scars? Scars too ugly, too fresh, too painful to reveal to anyone.
You know we’re not talking about physical scars, right? Well, maybe some of them.
Some physical scars work their way right down into the soul of the person wearing them.
Scars put there by hatred.
Scars dealt out by people who were supposed to show love instead.
Scars carved into their body by their own hand.
And yet, those scars are, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, only the tip of the iceberg.
We carry, in our bodies and souls, scars innumerable. Scars we wouldn’t dare to show to anyone.
Not to anyone.
There is not one human being who is unscathed. Not one. We all have scars.
Words said. Pain remembered. War. Old age.
Every part of our lives has its anguish. Scars come from all types of injuries.
And, we walk around with the scars hidden from sight. Walking wounded, many of them yet unhealed. Oozing, scabby things—they threaten to drain the life from us.
Tears come as I contemplate it. So much pain. So much hopelessness. All concealed and festering.
Some of it is mine. Perhaps, yours as well.
Our Savior came to bind up the broken hearts. (Isaiah 61:1)
More than that, He came to heal the scars and take away the pain. Because of His scars, healing is ours. (Isaiah 53:5)
There are some who take those words to mean physical healing. I won’t argue His power to do that. It seems clear though, that the words are intended to give us an unequivocal promise of healing for our souls.
Our scars need no longer be hidden! We need conceal our pain and our shame no more.
Thomas—the one we ridicule as the doubter—asked Him to unbutton His shirt and show him. Right in front of a houseful of His followers.
The scars of a common criminal—revealed for everyone in the room to see. The stripes upon His back, laid on by the Roman soldier. The holes in his wrists and feet, torn open by spikes hammered through (not gently).
All uncovered without embarrassment.
For us, His flesh was laid open.
My heart breaks as I consider all who walk in shame and fear—fear of the exposure of their scars and fear of carrying them to their graves.
I wonder. Maybe it’s time to show our scars to each other.
Maybe it’s time to tell the Good News, to do a little binding up of wounded hearts ourselves.
Maybe, it’s time to undress.
In public.
Let me show you something.
It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone. (Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy ~ American philanthropist ~ 1890-1995)
made new, neither wounded nor dishonorable.
