Sunday, 27 April 2014


“Some wounds never heal.” 

His voice caressed me softly in the stillness of the dark. My mind flashed in brilliant clarity. Jesus. Scarred. Wounded. Slain. Entering the Throne of Heaven. (Rev 5:6) 

He would know.

I opened my eyes. All was quiet, save the staccato beat of my heart. The remainders of a cold sweat trickled down my spine. I snuggled down closer under the heavy blanket and looked at the clock. 


“How long would I be awake for this time?” I wondered quietly, the recurring dream still receding from my mind. At least it was only monthly these days, or that is what it seemed. No record was being kept.

I lay there quietly. Remembering. A trauma still fresh over 3 years later. Realization dawning that I was permanently scarred through love.

Love can scar you permanently. Like a caesarian scar that beautifully reminds you of the gift of motherhood, you don’t mind it. In fact, it is looked on with joy for the fruit that it produced in your life.

Jesus was leading me. I was beginning to learn. I need not fight against all wounds, no longer silently screaming out to be rid of them by my Father. Sometimes it is a holy thing for wounds not to be healed. To form scars. The victory is won rather when I declare them as a sacred trophy of the triumph of Jesus, cherishing the abundance of fruit that is yielded.

I lay there. Deep in thought. Meditating on all that had been said to me. For this wound was deep. The scar went to the very essence of my deepest being. 

Could He lead me to see beauty amidst the searing pain that tormented my sleep? 
Could He lead me to see triumph and victory where till now, I had only had anger and hurt? Could I have joy here?

Tears chorused down my face. Saline groaning what words could not express. My Mother had died. There are no words to describe that pain. It is rather an inward groaning, an inward slow death that never seems to end. Could the sting of death be overcome?

But this scar. It was there because of love.The love that kept me bedside in those last hours, burning on my retina the images that wake me at night, searing in the loss to my very essence. 
It was love not hate. 
Love always triumphs. 
It always wins. 
It is a trophy that can never be destroyed. 
I need not fight the pain. 
I need not fight the loss. 
For it has born much fruit in my life. 
Fruit that is righteous, holy and good. 
And to that I give Jesus all the glory. 
For He has done this!

I declare to you brothers, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen I will tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed - in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable and the mortal with the immortal, then the saying that is written will come true ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’
‘Where, O death is your victory?’ ‘Where of death is your sting?’1 Cor 15:50-55

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