Any self-respecting resident of South Kenwood Avenue under the age of 12 wore his or her playground scars with pride. If you had scars from stitches, all the better, but if you had neither stitches nor scars, you could always painstakingly paint them on a knee or shin with the popular antiseptic Mercurochrome, its dark red ointment staining the skin.

I thought of this one Sunday when five-year-old Grace and I bonded over Band-Aids. She held up her right hand with a Band-Aid on her pointer finger, and I held up my left hand with a Band-Aid on my pointer finger. I don’t know how Grace hurt her finger. I added another scar to my hands when I was pruning lavender. I was being so careful not to cut into the woody stems that I chose to cut my finger instead. It’s a so-so South Kenwood-worthy scar since it didn't require stitches.

On that Monday, my oldest sister—whose age will remain undisclosed—and I bonded over deeper wounds than childhood scars. Soon this latest wound of hers will take a physical toll on her body, but not her heart. That remains steadfast, even though her and her husband’s hearts carry scars from adult children publicly disavowing Christianity, from disappointment of an abrupt end to a missionary career, and from family members who receive but never give.

The next day, Susan and I bonded over wounds that don’t ever seem to heal as year after year their pain is etched into our hearts and souls. And mine would threaten to bleed over save for Susan’s gentle words of grace and calm.

There is a temptation to dress our wounds so well that no one would ever know they were there. To be sure, some heart wounds can carry lessons in discernment and over-talking, but perhaps we need to unlearn lessons of self-reliance or misplaced confidence in position and power that give the illusion we are immune to heart wounds, that pain never infringes on our well-ordered lives.

In high school, my friends and I would sing “I Am a Rock” by Paul Simon with all the pathos and drama that only teenage girls could muster.

The closing lyrics of the song are:
I am a rock
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries.

There are days we resemble Paul Simon’s rock, and when we do, we need to recall the rock David describes in Psalm 18:2 who is our fortress, deliverer, refuge, salvation and stronghold.

We also need to see Jesus, a magnet for the wounded. Matthew describes great crowds coming to Jesus, “bringing with them the lame, the blind, the crippled, the mute, and many others, and they put them at his feet, and he healed them, so that the crowd wondered, when they saw the mute speaking, the crippled healthy, the lame walking, and the blind seeing. And they glorified the God of Israel.” (Matthew 15:30, 31)

We come to Jesus with our wounded and scarred hearts because he came for the sick and lost, not the healthy and those who have arrived. We come because his grace and lovingkindness keep us safe. We come singing the lyrics of another song, written long ago:

O sacred head now wounded
With grief and shame weighed down
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns thine only crown
How pale Thou art with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn

What thou, my Lord, hast suffered
Was all for sinners' gain
Oh mine was the transgression
But thine the deadly pain
Lo, here I fall, my Savior
'Tis I deserve thy place
Look on me with thy favor
Vouchsafe to me thy grace

What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest Friend
For this, thy dying sorrow
Thy pity without end?
Oh, make me thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee.

We come because by his wounds we are healed.