For a few years when I was a houseparent at Milton Hershey School (1998–2007), I used to speak to public and private schools about bullying. I typically worked directly with the students through assemblies and classroom discussions.
One particular day I was speaking with middle school students throughout the day during one of their classroom periods. A situation occurred at the end of one of these discussions as kids started filing out of the classroom to go to their next class. A young man came up to me and in a quiet voice—but not quiet enough—said a friend of his was “cutting” herself. He was concerned. Before I could tell him not to mention any names, he blurted her name out.
Unfortunately, a young girl who was somewhere else in the school was about to experience a tsunami of attention and shame as all of her secrets were about to be exposed for everyone to know. By the time I could get to the guidance counselor office, the rumors and gossip had already spread like wildfire through the school hallways.
That evening I went to the local grocery store to get a few items. As I pulled into the parking spot, processing all of what happened, I fell apart.
I felt horrible. In so many ways I had no control over what happened. But the questions flooded in anyway: What was her family life like? What was her school life like? Would she get the help she needed? All of these questions overwhelmed my heart and mind as I sat there in the parking lot, convinced I had done more harm than good.
I vowed that evening, sitting in that parking spot, that I would not do that kind of speaking again with teens. From that point on I typically worked with school administrations, teachers, and parents about bullying—equipping them with the tools they needed to create a safe school environment.
Often we make “vows” to ourselves when we experience some kind of wound. Wounds can create false beliefs and narratives. We make promises that can entrap our heart and wreck havoc on our relationships.
It’s funny how that vow I made that evening in the parking lot would come full circle almost 15 years later.
John Eldredge, author of Wild at Heart, writes, “A wound that goes unacknowledged and unwept is a wound that cannot heal.”
Speaking During Encounter Winter Camps
It was a Friday evening at Camp Monadnock. (2016)
Like every Friday evening, our program staff, speaker, and worship band met for prayer and to go over all the sessions in our chapel. For me, I was wearing two hats this weekend: Director and Speaker. I was speaking to 220+ teens. I was unsettled. I felt extremely vulnerable and fearful. I was confident in the material, but something was amiss.
As we prayed, Chris Allen, our worship leader for the weekend, prayed: “Lord, if there are any strongholds in this room right now, tear them down.”
Immediately, my heart and mind were drawn to that moment in the parking lot some 15 years earlier.
I was broken.
As we went out to session and as the band sang their last song before I took the stage, my eyes were already moist.
I took the stage feeling vulnerable and exposed. I set aside my message and I shared with them where I was at emotionally. I shared with them my parking lot moment and why I couldn’t approach this weekend with them lightly. The difference then, compared to that day at the public school, was that I couldn’t share the truth and hope of Jesus at a public school. This weekend was different.
The odds were extremely high that a teen in that room was struggling with self-harm, depression, anxiety, and aloneness. Someone was struggling with suicide ideation. Someone was struggling with a sin they couldn’t share with anyone.
As I worked through my emotions and my hopes in front of them, it was quiet and somber. Could something that happened 15 years earlier that left a wound…become a moment of strength? In God’s redemptive work and plan for our lives…I believe that’s how it works. (2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
By the end of the weekend, God did a mighty work in my life and in the lives of those at winter camp. My brokenness—and then my vulnerability—opened the door for others to feel vulnerable. God was able to use my brokenness in ways I still can’t believe. It’s amazing to me how He can use me for His greater glory, especially in those areas I don’t see as strengths—because I see them as weakness.
How Jesus’ Scars Changed What My Wounds Mean
Jesus didn’t erase His scars when He rose from the dead.
When He appeared to His disciples after the resurrection, He didn’t show up healed and polished, as if nothing had happened. He showed up with His wounds still visible.
Thomas wouldn’t believe unless he could see the scars. And Jesus didn’t rebuke him for it. He said, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27).
Jesus’ resurrected body still bore the marks of crucifixion.
The wounds didn’t disappear. They were transformed. They became the very proof of His victory. The scars that once screamed “defeated” now declared “death could not hold Me.”
Jesus’ wounds don’t define Him as broken. They define Him as the One who makes all things new—even the things we thought were beyond redemption.
Which means my wounds don’t have to define me the way I thought they would.
Not as failure. Not as disqualification. Not as the reason I should stay small and safe and hidden.
Because of Jesus’ wounds, my wounds can participate in something bigger than my shame.
Paul understood this. After his own encounter with the risen Christ, he wrote: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4).
The wounds don’t vanish. But they no longer control the story.
At Camp Monadnock, I wasn’t healed of the parking lot moment. I was released from the vow I made because of it. And in that release, the wound could finally do what God intended: not trap me, but free someone else.
I believe John Eldredge is right: “A wound that goes unacknowledged and unwept is a wound that cannot heal.”
I would have preferred that wound not to have been opened up right before I went on stage. But I don’t get to choose the outcomes of following Him. I do have to choose to trust His redemptive work in my life—even when it means letting the wound speak.
Don’t let your wounds define you. But do let God redeem them.