Beautiful Scars

Beautiful Scars

 I found out today that Charles Shoemaker passed away.

 I had not spoken to him in a long time, but his name still carries weight with me. He was there at the beginning, back when the church I planted in Winchester, Virginia was just an idea that needed people willing to believe in it before there was anything to see. Charles was one of those people.

 He was my first trustee. More than that, he was steady. The kind of man who didn’t need attention to be influential. He showed up, he stayed faithful, and he carried responsibility in a quiet way that made everything around him stronger. He loved the Lord. He loved his family. And when we were starting that church, he loved what we were trying to build.

 There are moments in life when you look back and realize something would not have happened without a certain person being there. That’s how I think about Charles. I don’t believe that church would have gotten off the ground without him.

 And that’s where this gets complicated for me.

 Because that season of my life did not end well. It didn’t fade out gently or resolve the way I thought it would. It fractured. What started with hope and purpose eventually gave way to tension, conflict, and decisions that left marks I still carry. I walked away from that church, and not long after, I found myself walking through the collapse of my marriage, stepping out of ministry, and questioning more than I ever thought I would.

 That season left a scar.

 For a long time, I didn’t know what to do with it. Part of me wanted to rewrite it, to find a way to make it all make sense. Another part of me wanted to distance myself from it completely, as if ignoring it could somehow lessen its impact. Neither approach ever worked. Because the truth is, that part of my life holds both things at the same time. There was real good there. And there was real pain.

 Hearing about Charles today brought that back into focus in a way I wasn’t expecting.

 He doesn’t represent the conflict. He represents what was right in that season. The faithfulness. The shared work. The early days when things were simple and full of belief. When I think about him, I don’t think about how it all ended. I think about how it started, and the kind of man he was in the middle of it.

 And it reminded me of something I’ve been learning, slowly. Not everything that leaves a mark in your life needs to be sorted into categories of good or bad. Some seasons carry both, and trying to reduce them to one or the other does not do justice to what was actually lived.

 Charles was part of something that mattered. That church mattered. The people mattered. The work we did together mattered. Even if the ending was painful, that doesn’t undo the reality of what was built.

 For a long time, I think I struggled because I felt like I had to choose how to define that season. Either it was a failure, or it was something to hold onto with pride. But life doesn’t usually give us those clean lines.

 Sometimes it gives us scars.

 And a scar is not a wound anymore, but it is still a mark. It tells the truth about what happened without needing to explain it away. It doesn’t pretend the pain wasn’t real. But it also stands as evidence that something healed, even if it didn’t heal the way we expected.

 When I think about Charles, I’m reminded that there are parts of my story I don’t need to defend or dismiss anymore. I can let them be what they were.

 There are things from that time I would handle differently now. There are moments I still wish had gone another way. But there are also people like him. Faithful, kind, steady people who gave their time and heart to something that mattered. 

 Today didn’t bring closure. It didn’t answer old questions. But it did give me a clearer view of something I’ve been learning to accept.

 Some scars are not meant to be erased or explained. They are meant to be owned.

 Because when you stop trying to rewrite them, you can finally see them for what they are. Not just reminders of pain, but reminders of what was real, what was built, and what still holds value, even now.

 And when I think about Charles now, one thing settles in. He was part of something that mattered. I’m grateful for the time we served together. Grateful that in a season that left a mark, there was also something real, something good, something worth remembering.

 His life made a difference. I won’t forget that.

 And as I think about him, my heart also turns to Donna.

 There is a quiet weight in losing someone who has walked beside you for so long. Not just in the big moments, but in the everyday rhythm of life. That kind of absence is hard to put into words.

 My prayer for her is simple. That she would know comfort in a real and steady way. That she would sense the presence of God in the quiet moments, in a way that meets her where she is.

 And that the life they shared, the faith they lived, and the love that marked their home would continue to carry her in the days ahead.