That winter a young woman came to the church to tell me that her life was over. Her husband had left her -- found someone else -- and she wanted to die. To be twenty-five and wish to die is a terrible thing. Over the next several months our church surrounded her with love. Through counseling she discovered the will to live again. Over and over she would speak of how perfect it had been and how completely humiliated she felt, as if someone had utterly violated her life, split her open, a great wound that simply would not heal.

Yet at age twenty-five we do learn to live again if we are surrounded by people who love and care for us. The scar is there. The humiliation remains. But new growth emerges around the scar and beauty returns despite the loss.

This woman was an artist. Part of getting well was to begin working again. One day after her return to health she stopped by to talk. She said, "All last winter, I looked at the sculpture on your table." (When she called it sculpture, I perked up.) "Did you do that?"

For a moment I didn't know how to answer. I responded, "Well, it's not really sculpture. It's a humiliated piece of wood that I ruined. I cut the wood when it was green!"

"Why don't you enter it in the art show?" "I couldn't do that. That's not art. And with real artists, I would be terrified."

She said, "Well, you are always telling people to get over being afraid and to try again. Why don't you practice what you preach? Enter it. I will help you."

What can you say to that kind of pastoral advice? So I entered the humiliated wood in the show. Now I need to tell you that I kept a safe distance from the display, too. The judges came. They talked. They gave it "Best in the Show." They wanted it for their collection.

"Look, it's not art," I said. "It's a scarred and humiliated piece of wood. I cut the walnut when it was green." They said the humiliation, the scars, are what make it interesting. That's what gives it integrity. That's what makes it art.

I knew then why glorification comes through humiliation. Out of weakness and frailty come greatness and strength. Those who open their lives to the painful business of change, discover that scars are growth signs -- stretch marks with life welding up around them.

I am always bothered when I am around people who have that porcelain, finished look. Where is the struggle? They have just done Kirk Douglas' face again, and he supposedly looks younger than his son. Yet a new face to hide the scars does not give new life.

Fresh starts come from letting go of the old life, of wearing the scars proudly, of being the wheat that risks falling into the ground to die, so that the beautiful new field of grain can prosper.

A bit later in the text Christ will say, "When I am lifted up, I will draw all persons unto me." The One lifted up is to be put on the cross of suffering and pain. And through that, He will draw all who suffer unto Him.

Life is always a risk. Someone is always cutting into the wood when it is green. We have what we give away. We keep what is freely given. To be truly alive is to be always dying. At its core, life is paradox. But only those who are willing to imitate the wheat will understand the miracle of new life.