The wounds He chose to keep

This is part 2 of our Holy Week blog post, "Hidden in His Wounds".

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (Caravaggio)

"Put your finger here": the wounds that remain

There's something about those wounds we're asking to hide in that we only discover after the resurrection.

“On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jewish leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you!’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord.” (John 20:19-20)

Jesus appears with resurrection power, and He walks through locked doors. Yet He's physical enough to show His wounds. Eight days later, when Thomas is present, Jesus issues an invitation that should stop us in our tracks: 

"Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." (John 20:27)

After the resurrection, when omnipotent power could have given Him a "perfect" body, He chose to remain scarred. The same wounds that caused His death become the means of Thomas's faith. The disciple who needed proof touches the scars and declares: "My Lord and my God!"

The wounds weren't leftovers Jesus couldn't fix. They were chosen, kept, made central to the revelation of who He is. When we pray "Within your wounds hide me," we're not asking for temporary shelter. We're asking to dwell in the very places Christ deemed worthy to carry into eternity. This challenges our assumptions about what "glorified" means. We've been taught that glorified bodies are "perfect" bodies, able-bodied, fertile, unmarked. "You'll be perfect in heaven" becomes code for "your current body is defective and needs fixing."

What the scars tell us 

But if Christ's glorified body bears scars, what does that tell us? That glorification doesn't mean erasure. It means transformation. For those of us carrying the cross of infertility, this matters profoundly. Our bodies have been marked by this journey. The scars, physical and otherwise, are real. The question isn't "will God erase these in eternity?" but "might God transform them into something that reflects His glory?"

Christ's wounds weren't important because they caused Him pain; they were important because they testified to His victory. They became the means of Thomas's faith. They were proof not of defeat, but of triumph over death itself. Scripture gives us glimpses of glorified bodies, incorruptible, glorious, powerful (1 Corinthians 15:42-44), but the details remain mysterious. What we do know is this: Christ's glorified body bore the marks of His suffering, not as ongoing pain, but as eternal testimony.

Our scars from infertility—the physical marks, the emotional wounds, the ways this cross has shaped us—might not be things God erases in eternity, but things He transforms. Not sources of ongoing pain, but testimonies of His faithfulness through suffering. Not evidence of our bodies' failure, but proof we survived, that God was present, that we carried this cross and He carried us through it. We don't worship a God who erases our stories. We worship a God who redeems them, scars and all.

Union and the impossible

Over the years of carrying the cross of infertility, my definition of fruitfulness has changed and expanded beyond biological motherhood. But here's what I'm only now understanding: that expansion happened through the wound. The breaking open of my narrow definition of fruitfulness was painful, but it created space for a different kind of life to grow.

After the crucifixion, the women went to the tomb carrying spices to anoint Jesus's dead body. They were planning to do something clearly impossible, to roll away a stone they couldn't move, to tend to a body that was already beyond their care. Yet they went anyway, driven by love. Mother Mary Francis writes that "love is always seeking to do the impossible. And one may truly say that love is always in some sense capable of the impossible" (Anima Christi, 2001). This is the kind of love that infertility teaches us. We keep showing up month after month to do something that feels impossible. We hope again. We try again. We bring our love to what looks like death—empty wombs, silent nurseries, years of waiting. And because we set out to do this impossible thing, we're prepared for an even greater impossibility: resurrection. Not necessarily in the form we expect, but in the form Christ chooses.

When we allow our wounds to rest in His wounds, we're never permitted to be parted from Him because we've become part of His body in the most intimate way possible. When we're hidden in Christ's wounds, united to Him, we gain access to His healing power for others. Our empty arms can hold others in their grief. Our unanswered prayers teach us to sit with others in their questions. Our waiting makes us present to those who wait.

"From the evil one protect me."

The enemy loves to attack us at our most vulnerable points, and for those of us carrying the wound of infertility, his lies are particularly cruel. He whispers that we're forgotten, that we're being punished, that our bodies are broken beyond redemption. He tells us that our worth is measured in the children we can't conceive, that our marriages are incomplete, that our faith must be weak or God would have answered by now.

But when we're hidden in Christ's wounds, these lies lose their power. The enemy cannot reach us there because he cannot comprehend self-giving love. He cannot understand wounds that remain open, not from weakness but from love. The protection we find in Christ's wounds isn't a fortress that keeps all pain out. It's being held safely within suffering transformed by love.

The end is praise: despite and because of

The Anima Christi ends in praise: "That with all the Saints I may praise thee, praise you forever and forever." This isn't praise that comes after the wounds are healed. It's praise that emerges from within the wounds themselves.

Mother Mary Francis writes that "this is the good wounded Jesus, who says, 'Bring me that pride that you cannot grapple with. Give it up—to me. I shall take care of it.'" We bring to Christ what we cannot rid ourselves of by our own efforts—our pride, our need for control, our demands for answers, our timelines and expectations.

“Within your wounds hide me.”

The invitation to hide in Christ's wounds isn't a one-time prayer. It's an ongoing posture, a daily choice to bring our wounds to Him, to offer ourselves to heal others rather than demanding to be healed on our terms.

Mother's Day will still be difficult. Pregnancy announcements will still sting. The monthly disappointments will still come. But when we're hidden in Christ's wounds, we're never alone in our suffering, and our suffering is never wasted. We're the women who bring spices to the tomb, who plan to roll away impossible stones, who show up again and again, driven by love that seeks the impossible. And in that hiding place, in those sacred wounds, we find we're never permitted to be parted from Him. We find protection not from suffering, but from the lies that would make our suffering meaningless. We find, against all odds, that our hearts can still praise.

Christ kept His wounds. And if He's not ashamed of His scars, we don't have to be ashamed of ours. "Within your wounds hide me." It's no longer a paradox. It's an invitation to the most intimate union possible and to a purpose we never could have imagined when we first began carrying this cross.

Journal and reflection prompts

By Lauren Allen

What wounds do you hold physically? Are you able to look at them? What scars would you prefer to see erased from your body? Spend some time in prayer reflecting on how you received these scars. Allow yourself to go deep into the pain of your wounds and imagine that as you’re in that moment, you’re surrounded by Christ’s own wounds. Journal a moment within this sacred space. 

Now I challenge you to look at the same scars and imagine they are completely gone or never existed. There is no outside proof of the trauma you’ve endured. How do you feel?

If you do not have exterior physical wounds, allow your mind to visualize what your emotional, spiritual, and mental wounds may look like. Can you draw them? If they were a color what color would they be?

When you’ve given yourself sufficient time to ponder and reflect on your own wounds, pray the following prayer and remain in silence or the contemplation state.

Holy Spirit, transform my wounds to mimic Christ’s. I offer up my wounds for the suffering of the world. In a special way this Easter, I offer up my wounds for (insert prayer intention here). May my wounds become a testimony to the cross; give me the strength to endure my cross as Christ endured His. Amen.