Scabs

It was a perfect day for performing death-defying, breath-taking feats of extreme daredevil biking. The sky was blue, the grass a rich green...early summer....August heat hadn't browned it yet, no wind, and just me and my buddy, Joel, preparing to jump the ramp we made with a 2x10 piece of lumber and a plastic milk crate. There were alot of perfect days that summer.

We had the perfect machines.....stingray bikes with banana seats, chopper handlebars, and baseball cards clothes pinned into the spokes of our wheels. What a menacing sound they made when we rode up the dirt road that ran between our houses! I'd like to think we were the prototype of the extreme biking you see today on ESPN....a bummer we never got credit for that.

For a sleepy, small, picturesque town in upper Northeastern Oklahoma, this was the most exciting thing of the summer to happen just shy of the 4th of July fireworks display; which was always done from the high school football field every year. And really....how can you compete with a fireworks display when there was also hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and cokes involved? OK, OK...it might not have been the most exciting thing, and maybe there weren't alot of spectators, but Joel and I were intent on getting better and going faster and flying higher jumping that ramp with each run.

Along with the successes in our jumps, there were also the failures....or might I say, crashes. With the crashes came scrapes and bruises and a little inhaling of dirt and dust. I think my elbows stayed a constant scab from late May to early September.

This was my method of triage...If I crashed and scraped my elbow and no blood ran down my arm I got on my bike and rode the ramp again. If I crashed and scraped my elbow and blood did run down my arm; I took a break, went into the house and would yell something like, "Mom, I need a little help here!" She was a wonderful nurse and I think a nervous wreck! She just didn't get that an eight year old boy had to do what I was doing. It was for the greater good of the fraternity of eight year old boys the world over.

"Surgery" was a wet washcloth compress to stop the bleeding, a quick look to make sure I didn't need stitches, a spray or two with Bactine to ward off infection, and a Band-Aid. She then would lovingly scold me, tell me not to jump my ramp anymore, kiss me on the forehead, and send me outside again to play. But....like a moth drawn to a flame....I went to the ramp and made more runs to perfect my craft. Women!!....or maybe more appropriately....Moms!!!

There was never a scrape on the knees as I remember. It was probably because Mom dressed me in those Sears Tough-Skin jeans with the sewn in knee patches. More protection there than the knee and shin pads a hockey goalie suits up with. The elbows though....they were the appendages I used consistently to break my fall when I crashed. They were marked up all the time and I wore those wounds very proudly. However, I hated the scabs that formed after a day or two....they were ugly, so I picked them away when they appeared. In my infinite eight year old wisdom, I didn't realize the scabs were a part of the healing process. At the pleading of Mom and Dad to leave my wounds alone and let them heal....I would not....I could not...the sight of the scabs were hideous to me. They had to come off!!!

In the peeling away of a scab the blood rushes to the surface of the wounded area again. Sometimes it stops there and sometimes it leaks out. Associated with that there is also the twinge of a sting and once again the wound is tender, sensitive to touch, and fresh....like it just happened. The sting of that peeling away served as a reminder of my crash. It was like I relived the glory of my daredevil biking in the sting of peeling away my scab.

For an eight year old that's all well and good. As an adult it is a totally different matter. In my adulthood those wounds moved from my elbows to my heart. I have survived many wounds. Some wounds have been due to circumstances beyond my control, some have been self-inflicted, and some have been made by the actions and words of others. All of us have been wounded one way or another. Some say it is part of the ebb and flow of life....and there is a truth in that. At one point or another we all can relate to a wounded heart because at one point or another we have all had one.

I used to think very stoically about my wounds....that my wounds and hurts make me the sum total of who I am....that they play a role in my personality, my interaction with others, my view of God, and my own self-evaluation. And while there are elements of truth in that, I am no longer convinced that's the whole purpose of my experiences. If it is, then I fall victim to and become a slave of my hurts. It's like the perpetual peeling away of a scab....where the wound never heals, is always fresh, and a constant stinging reminder of my crashes.

God wants me to heal. It is not his purpose I remain in a constant state of wounded or hurt. Purpose in those things?....yes, if I truly believe he works all things together for my good....and I do. But to remain there, no. For the longest time I found my identity in my wounds, they defined me. I moved from one hurt to the next and lived there until the next hurt came along. At times the hurts were many, all at once, so I even learned to multi-task them. In that state I found ways to cope....mainly through the mind-numbing abuse of alcohol. Alcohol abuse became my remedy, my medicine. It was the Bactine to my scraped elbow. It didn't however, fix anything....it only made the wounds hurt all the more.

For me, I started healing when I realized my identity was wrongly placed. I am not the sum total of my sins, my failures, my wounds, or my hurts. They don't define me. So what does define me,....or better yet,.....who defines me? The answer is simple and I guess a little obvious....Jesus. Jesus defines me. His life, his ministry, what he brought about in his death, burial, and resurrection....all these work together in defining me. Ephesians, chapter 2, gives a very lucid and direct explanation of who I was before Christ, and who I became after Christ.

Before Christ I was lost, far away from God, estranged, dead in my sins...there was no life in me at all. After Christ I was saved (rescued), brought near to God, reunited in right relationship, made alive in Christ. My identity is found in Christ. I live my life in him and he lives his life through me. The Word of God goes on to say in other areas that I am a son, adopted by God through the saving work of Christ on the cross. Being a son also makes me royalty. I am seated with Christ in the heavenlies and I share in all his blessings. If I am the sum total of anything, I am the sum total of who he is in me. Grasping that helps me understand Jesus when he said his purpose was to give me a rich and satisfying life.

My wounds serve a purpose in that they point me to the healer of them. He who reigns in me and over me. My wounds serve a purpose in that from them I draw experience. strength, and hope in the one who has helped me overcome them. My wounds cause me to be filled with compassion for those who are wounded and create in me a desire to help them heal. But....praise God....my wounds don't define me. I am in my Lord Jesus, and he is in me....in him do I discover the "me" he made.

Living wounded is no life....surviving and enduring our wounds is no life. God doesn't want to do his work in spite of us or instead of us, he wants to do his work in and through us. We are his righteousness in Christ Jesus! I want to live that rich and satisfying life Jesus said he came to give! How about you? Let the wounds heal, quit picking at the scabs! I believe the Lord wants to see us ride up the ramp at break-neck speed and fly higher than ever before!

"The thief's purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life." -John 10:10 NLT