The Scar

I grew up being told that my mother was beautiful. Her youthful appearance, long eyelashes and pointy ‘European’ nose were traits worthy of high praise. Most notable of all was her silky, white skin, with the only interruption being a long and mysterious mark on her left forearm.

When I was ten months old, I developed a high and dangerous fever which prompted my parents to deliver me to hospital in the pitch of night. The drive to emergency turned into a nightmare when our car was suddenly rammed while crossing an intersection. Ignoring their red light, the other driver crashed into the left side of our car before vanishing into the night.

Upon impact, windows shattered, metal twisted, and my mother used her flawless skin to shield mine from angry shards of glass. While I have no recollection of the accident, my mother remembers much: the deep cuts to my bone, my body covered in blood, and the frenzy that she felt in trying to resurrect her ‘dead’ daughter.

Removing my limp body from a mangled car, the night could not have felt darker. Without a mobile phone, help was not a convenient call away. Luckily, some men doing roadworks heard her howls and assisted in calling an ambulance. It was only after I had been wheeled into the operating theatre that she felt the searing pain on her left forearm. She too had been cut open, but as a mother, attending to her own pain was always a lesser priority.

For the longest time, I assumed that the mysterious mark on my mother’s arm was merely a birthmark—a boring story. I had no idea it was sketched from life-saving courage. I learned of the car crash as a young teenager and found it hard to believe. I knew that my mother was beautiful, but I never considered her to be brave. Having been born as an ‘accident’, I had become accustomed to feeling unwanted, and yet I was learning for the first time that my mother carries a battle scar because she would have traded her life for mine.

The wonder of growing up is being able to see with increasing clarity a child’s selfishness in light of parental sacrifice. With the passing of time, I have discovered that my mother’s beauty is marked by many scars—forged from hands that shielded my young eyes from sorrows that I never had to bear. Outsiders may see her beauty, but I have witnessed her many braveries.

Day and night, my mother toiled to put food on our table. Her dainty shoulders carried many burdens—but always with a smile and always with kindness. As a teenager, instead of respecting her for her sacrifices, I took advantage of her patient nature. I played with fire and tested every boundary. Mum will be fine. She’s not around anyway. She doesn’t actually care. Just as I was oblivious to the stories behind her scars, I was ignorant of the tears that were shed behind closed doors.

Children are consumed with building castles in the sand, while stomping stubborn feet with a deluded sense of sovereignty. They claim maturity because they think they’ve seen it all—when true wisdom is admitting that there’s always more to learn. My failure to see or appreciate my mother’s love is precisely what makes it all the more unconditional.

At times, my failures have left me crushed with regret and yet my Heavenly Father has repurposed them for good—for I now understand the gravity of amazing grace. A mother’s love is a beautiful mystery and yet it is merely a foretaste of a greater Love—one that angels longed to see and yet by grace was revealed to me. Instead of saving his beloved Son, God sent him to die. Trading his life for mine, Jesus was pierced and scarred to shield me from death’s sting. In light of my rebellion, the love of the cross is purely unconditional—and utterly undeserved.

On this side of eternity, I find it difficult to fathom the depth of God’s love to a sinner like me. On dark days, I may even be tempted to doubt his goodness as a Father. But when I stop to consider my Saviour’s scars in light of my ignorance, I know that I am still a child, and there is much I do not know.