Scars That Speak of Resurrection

On Thursday, a close friend sent me a meditation by Venerable Fulton J. Sheen titled Jesus of the Scars. It came at a time that felt anything but random. We are in the Easter season, a time when we celebrate the Resurrection and hold onto the truth that death does not have the final word. And knowing that this reflection came from someone who will be beatified this fall made it feel even more significant. Even more personally, he is from my home diocese, the Diocese of Peoria, which made the meditation feel less like something I happened to read and more like something I was meant to receive. 

As I read it, I was struck by how closely Easter remains tied to the Cross. One line stayed with me: “Unless there is a cross in our lives, there will never be an empty tomb… unless we suffer with Him, we shall not rise with Him.” I have heard that before. I have believed it. But now, I understand it in a way I didn’t before.

I recently went into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine surgery, something simple enough that I was expected to go home the very same day. It was meant to be controlled, manageable, predictable. But it didn’t unfold that way. Instead of returning home, I was admitted for five days. What was supposed to be routine became complicated and frightening. My body became a place of unexpected complication, and I found myself in a situation I had not prepared for, one I could not control. I remember the heaviness in my chest, the struggle to breathe, and the quiet awareness that something was not right. I remember how quickly everything shifted, how vulnerable I felt, and how deeply I realized that I was not in control.

And yet, somewhere within that experience, there was a question that surfaced, quietly but persistently: Where are You?

The meditation spoke about the scars of Christ not only as reminders of suffering, but as pledges of victory. That is not an easy truth to hold when you are in the middle of pain. There is nothing about those moments that feels victorious. It feels like loss, like fear, and like something you would never choose. It feels like your body has been overtaken, like your sense of stability has been shaken. Y
et, during this Easter season, we are reminded that Christ did not rise without His scars. He kept them. He revealed them. They were not erased in the Resurrection. They were transformed.

That realization has begun to change how I understand what happened to me. In the hospital, I wanted healing to mean going back to what was before, to a version of myself untouched by what I had just endured. But Christ does not present healing that way. When He rises, He does not hide His wounds. He shows them. Not as evidence of defeat, but as proof that suffering did not have the final word. That means the Resurrection is not about removing the wound, but about what God does within it.

The meditation also reminds us that Christ does not offer immunity from suffering. He does not promise that we will be spared pain, sorrow, or even moments of deep fear. That truth is difficult, but it is also grounding. It means that what I experienced was not outside of His awareness. It was not meaningless. It was not abandoned. Even in those moments when I felt fragile, when I did not feel strong or steady, when I wondered where He was, He was there.

Looking back, I can see it more clearly. He was there in the quiet steadiness that carried me when I did not feel steady. He was there in the people who cared for me, in the presence that surrounded me, in the breath I continued to take even when it felt difficult. He was there in ways I did not recognize at the time, but that I can begin to see now.

The meditation describes our trials as “the shade of His hand outstretched caressingly.” That is not how suffering feels in the moment. It does not feel gentle or comforting. But perhaps it means that even in the pain, we are not alone. Even in trauma, we are not outside His reach. Even in the scars we now carry, there is something being held, something being transformed, something that will not be wasted.

We are in the Easter season, and yet I find myself still carrying pieces of Good Friday within me. And maybe that is exactly where faith deepens. The Resurrection does not erase the Cross; it gives it meaning. I am still healing, still processing what I experienced, still learning what it means to trust in a way that is not rooted in control. But I am beginning to believe that the scars I carry are not signs of defeat. They are places where Christ has met me, and where He continues to meet me.

Because of Him, the worst thing is never the final thing. Because of Him, the wound is not the end of the story. Because of Him, even this will rise.