Scars. . .

 



My hands have so many scars, where I've injured myself over the years. I don't remember all of them, but I do remember a few.

The one I've highlighted below with the arrow, occurred when I was six years old. My Mom gave me a little pocket knife for my birthday. I remember taking it out in the field behind our house and getting a stick, and whittling it. . . Why do boys whittle sticks? I don't really know. . . something to do I guess. . .

I'm left handed, and when whittling that first day of my pocket knife ownership, I cut my right hand. I'm not sure how well it shows up in the picture, but I can clearly see it on my hand.

I have what is called left/right confusion. It's only been in the past few years, where I could confidently tell you which is my left or right hand without looking at that scar on my thumb. . .

That day some 65 years ago, I wrapped my hand in my pocket handkerchief. . . years ago moms made kids carry handkerchiefs. . . I wrapped my hand in my purple plaid pocket handkerchief to staunch the blood flow. . . I cut it pretty good. . . I took the knife back to my mom and gave it to her saying that I didn't think I was old enough to have a knife.

Thinking about that scar, and other physical, emotional, and spiritual scars this morning. . . Scars are memorials to past hurts. . . something not to be forgotten.

As a person with a past, I have scars. . . most not visible to anyone else, but there is great danger to me if I forget how I received those scars. I can never allow myself to forget the pain of the past. . .

I'm reminded of the Hebrew people, delivered from Egypt, how soon they forgot their oppression, and bondage:

Numbers 11:5 KJV  We remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlick:

18 years of ministry in the local county jail. . .How my hundreds of men and women did I see return again. . . They would walk out the jail doors, all saying, "Never again. . .", but all too often, again I would see them in a Wednesday night meeting, head hung low. . ."I messed up chaplain."

They didn't remember the scars. They forgot about the pain. The memory faded over time. . . and they fell prey to the temptation of a small pleasure which led them back into the horror of their former life.

I cannot live back in Egypt, but I dare not forget the pain and bondage I experienced there. . . yes there were fish, and cucumbers, and melons, but there was also making bricks without straw, harsh taskmasters, and the Pharaoh who wanted to kill all their baby boys. . .

The temptations seem small. . . but any step back toward Egypt, opens a wide gulf between you and God. . . and quickly takes you in a horribly wrong direction. . .

The choice is ours. . .the never ending pleasures of eternity vs the brief pleasures of the moment. . .

Lord, never let me forget the pain of Egypt. . .
I love You my God. . .

<3

Dave

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