A few weeks ago, when I headed to the beach for a week, I had one basic goal in mind.

To get a really, really awesome tan.

I’m not sure why exactly I doubted that eight days of laying on the sand and chasing little kiddos IN THE SUN wouldn’t do the trick on its own, but I wanted to be absolutely positive, so I did what any stupid reasonable girl would do. Which is to, you know, forgo the whole sunscreen deal.

Yes, I am serious. Be assured, my children were slathered hair to toenail with the highest SPF around and wore their rash guards the minute I saw any signs of pink. And believe it or not, even with all that, they still have little (meltingly adorable) tan lines.

I have tan lines too. Serious ones. As you can, I’m sure, imagine.

The second day there, I bought a new swimsuit. The lines and straps on this one were completely different than any of the other swimsuits I’ve had the past few years, which meant there were a few places on my back and my shoulders that hadn’t actually seen any sun to speak of in, well… forever. As in, probably never.

Because I have less sense that a goat and a hefty dose of vanity, I endured the pain that came along with the complete frying of my skin that week, certain that it would all be worth it when I went home a nice, even brown. (Which, I must say, it was. Please don’t hate.) What I didn’t anticipate was the healing process for those few spots of skin which were being exposed to harsh sunshine rays for the first time, ever. Or what would happen afterward.

While the rest of my body simply turned a darker shade of brown than it had been from all of our regular beach-going this summer, those few places took two weeks to heal. And in their place, instead of the nice summery, beachy tan I was after, are left… scars. Sunburn scars.

Didn’t plan for that one. Not so hot when it comes to those sundresses that fill my closet. I’m guessing I won’t be doing that again.

I was noticing yesterday morning that they’re almost completely healed now. The after-effects of a serious burn aren’t visible, and the skin, while not blending in with the tanned area around it, looks almost normal again. But there is one thing that has caught me by surprise. The skin is still a bit tender to the touch.

It’s a funny thing about scars. We all have them, usually from something that was fun until it… well, wasn’t. I have three of them on my knees from when I was a little girl; two from mountain bike accidents and one from a roller-blading spill. John has a big one in the center of his forehead, the result of tripping during a game of tag, back before he was even school-aged. But even though, for most of my scars (except these most recent ones, obviously) it’s been a decade or two since the initial wound, the skin is still tender. It won’t ever be the same or as strong as the healthy skin surrounding it. The scrapes or gashes may have healed and become gradually less painful, but the scar is still there. For the worst of them, I might still wince at close contact.

We’ve all heard the analogies a hundred times. Scars make us who we are. They show where we’ve been. They’re part of healing. We’re told the ugliness is beauty when viewed this way. We need to get over our scars. Get past them. They don’t mean anything anymore.

But we all know the truth.

Scars are ugly. Nobody (except maybe little boys) intentionally sets out to gain a body full of scars.

Nobody wants to have visible reminders of their worst moments–the ones they brought upon themselves, nor the ones others inflicted upon them. But deep wounds don’t heal without leaving a scar. Not ever.

It’s true: we do end up with these places of twisted, maimed skin (or of battered, bruised hearts) as the result of healing. But sometimes, the pain goes on long after the healing, by appearances, is complete.

There is truth to the analogies. Scars do make us who we are. They cause us to remember our weakest and darkest days. They remind us of our brokenness, our weakness. And, to me, they drive me back to my Lord. The One who brought me through those days. The One who did and is doing the healing in my life.

A scar equals a pain. A wound. We can’t simply dismiss it. Can’t pretend it isn’t there. The residual ache… or the healing. Because, in reality, a scar is always a little bit of both.