I sat in a small white room, legs dangling from an exam table. I don’t remember exactly what I was wearing, but if I were to guess I would say it was probably a T-shirt from Justice, some gaucho pants (listen, they were in style and comfortable), and sparkly tennis shoes. I looked at my mom sitting in the chair across from me with a notepad and pen waiting for my doctor to walk in and give us some clarity. I was a mere seven years old, but it was that moment that it clicked, “something is wrong with me.”

I spent the next 8 years at doctor’s appointments, missing school, slowly discovering that my life was different than my friends. My body was broken and we couldn’t quite figure out why. Finally, we got the answers we had been looking for my freshman year of highschool. I was once again in a small white room, feet dangling from an exam table, but this time I realized I wasn’t going to get some magic pill or remedy, I realized this was permanent. My body was broken and I would have to deal with this forever. I had already known what it was like to be sick, but it was hard to imagine this life forever.

…

I’ve been on many memorable dates but there’s one that I’ll never forget. We were in a coffee shop and I had started to open up about my health. I have always figured that I will just get this whole “sickness and in health thing” out of the way, move forward with the facts, and see how they take it. After all, I’m not just a sick person… I’m a person who happens to be chronically ill. But my life is more than that, so what’s the big deal?

I will never forget that person looking me in the eyes and telling me they had been thinking about how I was sick and realized how much I couldn’t do. I stared blankly as he talked about hiking miles and going on runs, both of which my body could not handle. Activities this person enjoyed doing, and now he realized that there was a significant downside to dating me. I felt like I wanted to run out of that coffee shop but I was frozen in my seat. I felt the world collapse around me, but smiled sweetly and said that was understandable. He wasn’t wrong necessarily, I’m glad  he was at least honest, but shame overtook me. Seven year old Holly felt every bit of those words… something was wrong with me.

Shame is such an interesting feeling. It tells you that who you are is defined by what you’ve done, what’s been said, or what has been done to you. Often this feeling overtakes us, convinces us to live in a reality of labels. Those labels take turns determining everything for us, and nothing else, and no one else, can seem to erase them. Shame’s knife engraves them onto our skin and the scars are just there for everyone to see.

Maybe the shame that has become your identity isn’t from sickness but from something else. Maybe decisions you’ve made or even decisions made for you. I know that type of shame well too. Maybe your past loves to slither down the tree and whisper in your ear, “look at the scars on you. This is who you are.”  My past loves to whisper how unloveable I am, how hopeless things are for me now that certain things have happened, and how I’ll never be valued because of decisions I’ve made and everything that has occurred. Maybe those whispers are familiar to you.

The truth is that I am indeed sick. I will be sick and have limitations for the rest of my life unless the Lord decides to heal me prior to heaven. There’s decisions in my past that I regret and they are part of my story too, and this is just the facts. Cold and hard, but true.

But our identity is not wrapped in our scars. They’re wrapped in His. His scars say “worthy,” “loved,” “known.” His say that no matter what has occurred, He comes down and is present in it. His scars were not engraved with shame, but instead are the proof that we don’t have to live with shame any longer.

The only scars that define your worth are His.

I still look at my scars every day. The ones that say “sick,” broken,” “unloveable,” and they are still there, but then I look at His, and realize mine won’t be here forever and I’m exactly who He says I am. Even when it’s hard to believe, even when I don’t want to believe it, His scars are there, ready to view. Ready speak truth to ours. You are not what has happened to you; you are His.

Much love,

Holly