The Scars That Stayed
I sat at the Garden Tomb this weekend,
just outside the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem.
The air was still.
And the stones carried a story.
Our guide spoke about Thomas,
the one who doubted.
The one who needed to see proof.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about this.
Jesus had just conquered death.
He had gone into the depths of hell.
He broke its chains.
He stole its keys and rose victorious.
He could have come back flawless.
He could have erased every trace of pain.
He could have removed any sign of His suffering.
But He didn’t.
He chose to keep the scars.
The wounds that once broke the heart of Heaven
became the sign that Heaven had won.
The marks that once spoke of suffering and pain
became the evidence that helped someone struggling to believe.
Maybe that’s the point.
My scars aren’t signs of failure.
They are signs that I survived.
They’re proof that love held on.
So maybe today we should stop.
Stop hiding what He already healed.
Stop pretending we’ve never been broken.
Let the scars show.
Let them speak.
Because someone else might need to see them
to believe that healing is real.
Our scars aren’t the end of our story.
They’re the proof of who did the healing.
And they are a reminder that He still does.
“Then He said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here. See My hands.
Reach out your hand and put it into My side.
Stop doubting and believe.’”
John 20:27 (NIV)
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