“And after eight days, again, His disciples were inside, and Thomas with them. Jesus came, the doors have been shut and stood in their midst, and said, “Peace be with you.” Then He said to Thomas, “Reach here, your finger, and see My hands; and reach here your hand, and put it into My side; and be not unbelieving, but believing, Thomas answered Him, and said to Him, my Lord and my God!”  

– John 20:26-28 

You might say Jesus had something to prove that day, at least to one disciple.  

So, when He, in His post-resurrected body, miraculously walked into a room that had been shut up tight, His mission had already begun. Once again, He was meeting one of His own exactly where they were, with exactly what they needed, at the exact moment they needed it. No judgement. Just Jesus. He has a long history of that. He still makes His way into our shut-up rooms. 

I’ve thought a lot about Jesus and Thomas this past week. If I had been around right after the Resurrection, when I was first reunited with Jesus, would I have been a Thomas? Would I have needed proof that it was really Jesus standing before me? Would I have withheld my faith until I had assured myself I had not been gulled into something that had just fallen apart before my eyes? Would you? I wonder. 

“Oh, we of little faith.” 

For better or worse, sometimes it does take lasting evidence to remind us of what just happened, and that’s not always a bad thing. 

Almost three weeks ago, I left the surgery center in incredible pain with a bandage covering the better part of my leg. A week later the bandage came off, and I saw my scar for the first time in all its battle-stained glory. 

How long had I bemoaned the thought of it? The surgery. The railroad track scar chugging down my leg that marked me infirmed and failing. 

And now? Well, I’ll tell you, I keep looking down at it and smiling.  

I’m on the other side!  

That scar means I did it. That beautiful, garish scar means healing can begin. 

It means a surgeon took out my old broken knee and in a blaze of modern, robotic glory, put a new bright, shiny one in its place. What a fraidy cat I had been, kicking the can down the road for as long as I could. Limping through each day, trying to avoid the inevitable. 

But now, I’m on the other side, and every uncomfortable night, every day tinted by healing pain, every hard-fought-for step, brings me closer to wellness. 

I’m going to show the grandchildren my fancy new scar at our Sixth Annual Hallelujah Easter Tea this weekend. I’m going to tell them about the new life it will give me. I’m going to point it out to our little granddaughter who recently informed me of her plan to ask Jesus to help me run. 

 “Oh, Darlin’,” I responded to her sweet idea for prayer, “I don’t know if Grammy is going to be able to run for a while.”  

 “Okay then,” she said without skipping a beat, “I’m going to ask Him if He will help you hurry!”  

Perfect! In the future, if you see me hurrying, you will know the whole story. 

But, oh our Savior’s scars!  

They hurry a healing we can barely fathom. They represent the immediate  payment for our sinful, unworthy condition that has gnawed at our spirit and separated us from God. Our guilt, struggles, disappointments, and emptiness find hope and healing when we accept the sacrifice He made in our place.  

Jesus’ scars carry us to the other side of the cross. 

They are the road on which we travel for forgiveness, redemption, and new life in Christ. No wonder Thomas wanted to see and touch them. 

I’m going to tell our grandchildren about Jesus’ scars and how they do not compare to ours. Of how His scars can heal all our brokenness and give us a new life filled with hope when we give our heart to Him. 

These are big concepts, but we will continue to plant seeds and trust God to water them as He sees fit. 

In the meantime, we will look at our own scars—the physical ones as well as the hard, but merciful lessons that left their mark on us—for many tell the stories of the times Jesus walked into our own locked rooms.  

Oh, the joy of being on the other side of the cross! It’s where our Easter tea gets its name.  

Hallelujah!