Monday morning, I started the process of putting away the ceramic bunnies and Easter baskets that lined the window of my dining room. I made my way to the dining room table and pulled off the colorful Easter tablecloth, looking at the thick pads that covered my dining room table. This table, a beautiful, rich brown mahogany, was one of the first pieces of “real” furniture my husband and I bought as a newly married couple. It has been hidden for decades beneath the pads and the tablecloths. My daughter asked me recently, “Why are you still protecting this table?” The truth is; I have not been protecting anything. I have been hiding all the scratches, dents and scars made by a growing family.
Monday, with this weekend’s sermon swirling in my head, I removed the pads from the table. Like the scars of our lives, every scratch, every ding tells a story: the cat running into the dining room with the dog in hot pursuit, leaping on the table and skidding the full length, using his back claws to slow down the slide. There are dings and dents from sippy cups and toys that went flying during dinner. My favorite is a pattern of little dots carved deep into the wood, made when a three-year-old Laynie banged a fork along the side of the table as a work of art.
It’s just a table, but stands as a symbol of all the scars and wounds in our lives that we try to hide. We are embarrassed; we want to pretend they aren’t there. Maybe we don’t want to face the pain. Then along comes the risen Jesus who asks us to look at the wounds in his hands, his feet, his side. Jesus shows us that from our wounds, or through our wounds, we find resurrection. Every scar tells a story. It is a story of survival. It is a story of new life.
Starting today, we tell our stories and experience the resurrection.