Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:7–9 (NIV)

I sat on the bed tracing my scar. What used to be black and swollen is now a faint, discolored railroad track along the back of my ankle. My physical therapist told me to show my scar some love, to massage it to prevent scar tissue and to keep it from hardening. I rubbed oil onto my skin and pressed slowly into the scar.

It hurts.

The scar.

This scar, like all scars, serves as a reminder of what I’ve been through, a painful past. A symbol of both hurt and healing. It’s slow. My husband often says, “trust the process.” Although I roll my eyes every time, he’s right. The problem is I am not patient. I want the pain gone now. The return to normalcy now. Crucial conversations now. Problems addressed now. Everything fixed. Now.

The scar.

As I massaged my scar, I was reminded of the scars that aren’t visible. I was reminded of the emotional scars –the struggles – that exist within us, our marriages, and our relationships. I hate my scar. Some scars we can point to; others we just feel. Most days I can pretend it’s not there until something happens that prevents me from pretending. 

The scar.

I go to God begging Him to fix it. Again. To take it away. Again. I try to guilt Him, to prove He hears me, that He cares enough to act. I tell Him that if He really loved me, He would fix it. But He doesn’t. And the scar remains.

As I massage more oil onto my skin, I realize it doesn’t hurt as much. It’s not as tender. I lean into the dulled ache. I think this scar isn’t going to go away. It’s too much a part of who I am. I’ll need to keep massaging this scar to prevent hardening. I’ll need to surrender this scar again and again. 

And again.