Fake things never break. Then again, they never get to be real either

I have a feeling that if we could see Jesus right now, this very minute, like teleported from heaven to us instantaneously, that He would still have scars in His hands, feet and side. I get this feeling because scars have been on my mind lately.


I am kind've into the whole praying for perfection thing. I was just doing it this morning. Sometimes, I get up and I'm like "Ok God, today I am not going to do X. I am going to rely on you for X and to provide so that I don't screw X up. So please remove X from me so that I can be more like You what I want to be. Amen."


Ok that's not really how my prayers go, but that is the main idea. I want to be fixed. Living broken gets old. Constantly screwing up gets old. Perpetually chewing on my foot gets old. A lot of times I just ask for restoration, for redemption, to be able to walk like I used to. Before sin X got in the way and became a perpetual thorn in my side.


I also try to not be obnoxious because, let's face it, I kind've am by nature, so that goes on the prayer list as well. "Lord, let people like me" is the main idea, though I would never say that out loud because that's for needy people and hey, I am self sufficient. I think. Ok maybe not but I pretend. So I try, throughout my day, to get better at coming across as this got-it-together, cool kid that isn't to be messed with by saying the right things, scoffing at the right things, having the right comebacks, thinking the right things, etc. I know, I'm lame




I guess, basically, I'm saying that my prayers go, "Lord, please make me what I am not. Please make me what they say I should look like instead of what I do look like, because no one likes the messed up kid with their finger up their nose that licks the windows."




And so I just kind've stumble through life, banging into windows called judgement and ceilings called stereotypes and tripping over rocks called ideal. And it truly gets old, because I guess I figure if I was how I should be I wouldn't be running into things so much. If I was like, perfect Christian girl, who was culturally relevant, spiritually together, socially adept, and hott all at the same time, then I'd have reached the pinnacle of what I keep shooting for and missing. I wouldn't be loud and obnoxious and painfully honest, my hair wouldn't be so erratic and my mouth would wait on my brain to catch up, and I wouldn't be so shallow sometimes.


But you know, God hasn't answered these prayers. I mean, I understand the concept of tact, but I still pick honesty over discretion every time. I discovered hair gel, but my hair is still spastic. My scars and shortcomings, the things that make me Alysa, those haven't gone away. They're there. Oh, I've gotten a little better about covering them up, or only revealing them when I know they'll be accepted or understood, even at treating them like little badges of courage, but it's not like I am any different than I was before I was saved. It's not like God has been answering those prayers.




And I was thinking about Jesus, and about what would happen if He went to God and was like "Hey Father, I know I saved the world and all, but I'd like to get rid of these holes in my hands and side because I mean, come on, the memories these things bring back ain't exactly what I want to be thinking about all day and they're kind've ugly."


Are you kidding me? Jesus without scars? I don't want a Jesus without scars. I want the holes there. I want the ripped up back from the scourging. I want to be able to know exactly how far Jesus was willing to go to rescue me. I don't want Him to forget what He did, and what happened, and the decision He made for me that day. For us. Because that decision ripped through the world and spoke what no One else ever could, or for that matter, would. I love you. I choose you. You're worth it to me. I want you with me this much. You're sin is mine. You're free.


Maybe the same thing applies to me. My scars are ugly. My shortcomings are embarrassing. I struggle with that, you have got to be kidding me God!? Couldn't you send me something a little less pathetically awful? Would you please, just for once, make me not act like a big freak? 


But my scars speak. They speak of a God who didn't let go. They speak of my tendency to struggle, but also of my rescue being a power bigger than I understand. They speak a reminder that only in weakness am I able to go on, and they remind me of a perspective of daily begging for grace that I so often leave behind me. Jesus gave me eternal life when He died that day, but He gave me something else too. He gave me the permission to be real. To be messy. To be not fixed. He gave me freedom to be exactly what He made me, scars and all, because the girl He died for isn't some perfect, pie in the sky, superawesomeneverlame girl. The girl He died for is the lame one that still wonders deep down if she's good enough, the one who's hair looks like Steve Urkel on crack, the same girl that feels like everyone should know her opinion the minute she comes up with it, whether they want to or not.




So I'm trying to be a little more content in the midst than racing to get "fixed". Besides, if that girl is good enough for Jesus to die for, then she's good enough for me