I am a twin. Not like the cool parent-trap identical twins that can switch places and trick people. We are absolutely nothing alike. He has black hair, mine is brown. He has brown eyes, mine are green. He speaks with a southern draw, I don’t. He likes watching NASCAR, I like watching real sports. Despite how different we are, I love having a twin.

Our story didn’t start smoothly though. We were born extremely premature — almost ten weeks early. My mother’s life was at stake, so we had to go into emergency delivery. When we were born, we weighed less than three pounds a piece. Imagine a stick of butter, we were about that size. As if being a butter baby wasn’t bad enough, my brother had serious complications. Once he was delivered, the doctors immediately scrambled around him, giving him CPR. He was hardly breathing, his heart wasn’t beating right, and they were worried they were going to lose him. They had to hook him to a ventilator just to keep him alive because he couldn’t breathe on his own.

Unfortunately, they had to preform open heart surgery on my brother when he was only eleven days old. Since he was so little, they had to work on his vital organs by entering into his back. The surgeons carefully cut across the entirety of his left side. Hours passed, but they managed to complete the procedure perfectly. Once they tried to make him stable, my brother went into cardiac arrest. They had to shock his little heart to revive him. This cycle kept repeating itself. It went from bad to worse. They couldn’t get his heart to slow down now — it was beating 8x a healthy pace. They were certain he wasn’t going to make it. In distress, my mother wept in the little hospital chapel praying to God for a miracle. While on her knees, someone found her and said the doctor wanted to see her. With a smile on his face, he said that my brother was alive. His heart was beating normally and his lungs were inflating properly.

READ: John 20:26-27
A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”

This exchange takes place after Jesus had been crucified and raised from the dead.
Thomas struggles to process all this, so he asks to see Christ’s scars for proof.
Thomas placed his fingers inside the deep wounds on Jesus’ wrists. He felt the gashes and scabs all over his side.

Put yourself in Thomas’ shoes (or sandals) for a moment. He saw Jesus, his friend, mauled and murdered in a public execution. Thomas saw him buried in a stone tomb. Now, Thomas was standing in front of his friend again. Imagine this moment. He asked to feel His scars, and His scars told a miraculous story. Jesus died then defeated death for His people. Each scar served as a reminder of that miracle.

My brother still has a large scar on his back from his surgery as an infant. This scar tells a story too. It speaks of the moment that he died and had to be brought back to life. It speaks to the fact that his heart wasn’t working, but it’s healed now. It is so much more than just a scratch — it’s a story. The same is true in your life. You probably have scars too.

Maybe you went through a bad breakup.
Maybe you dealt with doubt.
Maybe your family life hasn’t been great.
Maybe you secretly struggled with some deep pain.

Whatever scar you have, know that sharing it can help someone experience Jesus. Your scars will point people to the Savior. Your story will bring God glory. Share it! It doesn’t have to be as dramatic as an infant having open-heart surgery. Any story that God wrote is a story worth sharing — especially yours.

Your scars tell a story. Jesus has brought you through some serious stuff. Take the brave step of sharing your story with someone this week. All of our stories, however complex or seemingly simple, can point people to the life-changing power of Jesus.