My sister ripped my shirt apart in front of two hundred guests and laughed at the scars across my back. For one stunned moment, even the champagne seemed to stand still.

truth home,” she said.

I knelt until we were eye level.

“He brought me home too,” I told her.

That evening, I looked at the scars in my mirror and touched them without shame. They no longer represented brokenness.

They were proof that I had walked through fire, survived it, and lived long enough to watch those who mocked my wounds bow before the truth.continue reading …