None Cuts

I was chatting with some kids tonight, and they were swapping special war wound stories. You know, cuts that need stitches, broken bones, skulls split open, that sort of thing. I casually mentioned that I'd never needed stitches or broken a bone, and what followed turned a casual conversation into something I couldn't stop thinking about.

The little boy began studying my face carefully. "You have none cuts on your face," he declared. He got up off his chair and came and stood next to me. You have none bumps on your head," he stated, as he waved his hands over my head. He reached out and took my arm and examined it. "You have none cuts on your arms," and he gestured to my legs, saying, "And you have none cuts on your legs!" He waved his arms over me, and with a voice filled with wonder, he said, "You're perfect all over! It's like you were just born three seconds ago!"

At first, I found his analysis amusing. By the time he had gotten to my arms, I was getting worried. Little boy, if you look too closely, you'll see the wrinkles and the age spots, the freckles and the warts! And by the time he got to my legs, and stated me perfect, my heart was writhing.

Oh, little buddy, how wrong you are! You cannot see the scars I have carried since I was littler than you. You don't see how my heart has been shattered and cobbled together more times than I can count. You don't see the creases and lines where it has been fit together and mended imperfectly. You can't see the ugly, mottled bruises of mistrust, fear, anger, and jealousy that mark and spot my soul. You do not see the places where I am bleeding, sometimes in a slow ooze, sometimes in a spray of red from wounds where loved ones were once attached and have been torn away. You don't see that I walk with a limp from the places where I have wrestled with God and been disciplined by his love. You don't realise how old I feel. Little B, don't look too closely, or you'll see the wrinkles and ugly bits, the broken heart and bruised soul. You'll see not perfect all over, but sinful and scarred. You'll see not born 3 seconds ago, but bearing a lifetime of wounding and pain. You won't see a princess, but a troll.

And in that moment, as I wanted to escape this little boy's searching gaze, as I wanted to laugh it off as so much childish innocence to not notice the spots and warts, I couldn't. My heart whispered, "Marianne, what if it's not childish naiveté that sees you as such, but childlike faith? Isn't that how God sees you?"

It staggered me. I couldn't laugh it off. I knew God was speaking through a seven-year-old sage.

He sees me, not as scarred and broken, patched together and good enough, but as perfect. Born three seconds ago. Untouched yet by the ugliness of life, of sin. Born anew, in Christ, clothed with His righteousness. Each day new. Each moment fresh. Each second chance a new beginning. He thinks I'm beautiful. None cuts. None bumps. He bears those for me.

None condemnation.

All praise.