At 8:00 AM on a Wednesday morning, my phone buzzed with a simple text to my daughter. What followed was one of those exchanges that sneaks up on you and ends up teaching more theology than a sermon.

Wednesday – 8:00 AM

Me:
B U 2day

Michelle:
I will carry your support with me today.
You B U too, my dear Papa. I hereby demand it!

A few minutes later, another message came through.

“I’ve felt compelled lately to wear my flaws and scars proudly rather than attempting desperately to conceal them. I’ve been advised to view them as if they were a map of where I’ve been. Each scar — and even the tattoos I hate so much — serve as landmarks on the long and agonizing journey that got me to where I am now.

Newborn babies have perfect skin because they don’t have a story to tell yet. Not us. We have war-torn bodies and faces because we’ve been to battle. Scars are proof that we survived something, and resilience of the spirit after an attack like that is one of the most massive character traits a person can have.

I think of the emphasis the Bible places on Jesus’ scarred hands and how after His resurrection, that is the one wound that didn’t heal perfectly. I can’t help but wonder why He chose to keep those scars. I would venture to guess it’s because He wanted to keep a reminder of the battle He chose to fight — and how the most agonizingly painful part of His life was the very same thing that turned Him from a human into a Savior.”

I stared at my phone for a long time.

All I had sent was, be you today

And somehow, my daughter delivered a divine message back to me.

Maybe we hide our scars because we think they disqualify us.
Maybe Jesus kept His because they qualified Him.

Those scars were not signs of defeat. They were credentials of love.

And maybe ours are too.