Crashes, Scars and Resurrection
Sometimes Resurrection Leaves Scars
If potholes jar you and gravel unnerves you, crashes just flat-out take you down.
Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling: one second you’re upright, the next you’re tangled in a mess of handlebars, chain grease, and pride. Sometimes you get up with nothing worse than road rash. Other times, you limp away with scars that last a lifetime.
I know this one by heart.
A few winters ago, the Sunday after the Houston big freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail planning to ride 60 miles before meeting friends for lunch. The pavement looked clear enough, but an innocent-looking patch of slush sent my wheels out from under me. I unclipped but for some reason did it awkwardly, and in a blink my ankle snapped. Just like that, I went from riding free to riding in an ambulance. The 60 miles became 30 miles and the lunch never happened.
The aftermath wasn’t pretty. A bunch of screws and plates held my ankle together for a while. My X-rays looked like something from a Home Depot catalog. Eventually, the hardware had to come out because it caused more trouble than it solved. I still keep the X-ray pictures (the graphics are of my right ankle that was broken). They’re not pretty, but they preach. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I healed. Proof that sometimes resurrection comes with plates and screws.
Today, I carry the memories more than the metal—reminders of both the fragility of the human body and the stubbornness of the human spirit.
Life hands us crashes too.
- The divorce you never saw coming.
- The diagnosis that stops you in your tracks.
- The job loss that pulls the rug out from under you.
- The phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything.
Unlike potholes or gravel, these aren’t moments you just “ride through.” They take you down. They hurt. They leave scars. And sometimes they leave you wondering if you’ll ever get back up.
Here’s the thing about scars: they don’t lie. They’re honest in a way that words sometimes aren’t. A scar is proof that something hurt you, but it’s also proof that the hurt didn’t win. It tells the whole story—pain and healing, breaking and mending, falling and rising again.
Scars are strange that way. They mark the places of our deepest weakness, and at the same time they become signs of our resilience. They whisper both, “This is where you were broken,” and, “This is where you got back up.”
My orthopedic surgeon was proud that he’d done the surgeries on my ankle without leaving any visible scars. I told him, half-joking, that I kind of wanted the scars—for the stories, of course. He grinned and said, “Well, I could always draw one on for you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Then you can just get a tattoo artist to make it permanent.” For a split second, I almost agreed.
I can laugh about it now, but the point still stands: scars—real or imagined—carry meaning. They’re proof that you’ve been down, but also proof you got back up.
And isn’t that what resurrection really is? Not pretending the crash never happened, but living as proof that it didn’t get the last word.
The first ride back after my ankle healed was equal parts joy and terror. My mind kept replaying the fall, reminding me how fragile the body—and confidence—can be. Every turn of the pedal felt risky. Every shadow on the trail looked like another slush patch.
But slowly, something shifted. I felt the rhythm again. The tires began to hum. The fear started to fade, replaced by the familiar freedom of the ride.
That’s resurrection. Not everything going back to “the way it was,” but the courage to try again after you’ve been broken. Resurrection is about scars that don’t disappear but no longer define you. It’s about grace that meets you in the getting back up.
Cyclists trade crash stories the way kids trade baseball cards. Each one carries a mix of pain, pride, and proof of survival. And maybe that’s part of the healing too—learning to laugh at what once felt impossible.
I still tell mine with a grin: the slush patch, the screws, the hardware catalog X-rays, and yes—even the surgeon who offered to draw me a scar. Sometimes laughter is its own kind of resurrection.
For me, even the crash became an Unlikely Altar.
It’s where I was reminded of how breakable we all are—and how much strength we can find in the getting back up. It’s where I learned that scars are more than reminders of pain; they are testimonies of healing.
Life’s crashes will come. They’ll hurt. They’ll mark us. But they don’t have the last word. Sometimes they become the very place where resurrection breaks through, where grace shows up, and where we discover that even broken bones—and broken lives—can be made strong again.
Some days in this work end with a policy. Some days end with silence. And some days end with 343 dials , 6 total contacts , 2 people who had already died, 2 who swear they never filled out a form , and 1 very clear message that included the f-bomb and instructions to leave them alone. After a day like that, I had choices. I could have written Lauryn a letter of resignation. I could have poured something strong and kept pouring, purely for medicinal reasons. Or I could do what I’ve learned to do over a lifetime — look for God, and for the Unlikely Altar , even on days like this. So I made an Old Fashioned , sat with the frustration, and went looking for meaning instead of escape. This is what I found. Most days, this work doesn’t feel like selling anything at all. It feels like waiting and hoping. Waiting and hoping for someone to answer a call. Waiting and hoping for a text that rarely comes. Waiting and hoping through long pauses where you don’t know if you helped, were annoyed, or simply disappeared into someone else’s already-full life. Those days get under your skin. They make you second-guess your timing, your tone, your calling. They whisper that maybe you’re bothering people. That maybe this work is foolish. That maybe you should find something easier, something cleaner, something with clearer wins. But I’ve seen what happens when no one shows up early. I’ve seen families blindsided, not just by grief but by decisions they didn’t know they’d have to make so fast. I’ve watched love get tangled up with panic, debt, and shame. I’ve seen people try to say goodbye while also figuring out how to pay for it. Final expense work lets us step into the story before the crisis. Not to scare people. Not to pressure them. Just to slow things down. To give them room. To give love a little help before it’s exhausted. It’s not flashy work. It’s quiet. Sometimes awkward. Often resisted. And a lot of it never shows up on a spreadsheet. Some conversations end with a policy. Many don’t. Some end with “not now.” Some end with silence. Some end because the person dies before anything can be done at all. Those are the ones that hurt the most, because you know exactly how the story will go from there. Still, we show up. Somewhere between the last unanswered call and the first honest breath of the evening, I realized that this too was an altar. Not a sanctuary. Not a success story. Just a kitchen counter, a half-finished drink, and the choice to stay present instead of walking away. That’s the Unlikely Altar . The place where frustration and care sit side by side. Where you tell the truth about how hard the day was and still decide not to quit. We show up because kindness done in advance still counts, even when it’s invisible. We show up because being honest and steady with someone who’s afraid is never wasted. We show up because preparation is one of the most underrated forms of love. I don’t know what your “why” is. Maybe it’s mostly financial. Maybe this work just fits your season right now. That’s okay. There’s no purity test for why we do this. I only know mine. Mine comes from seeing families who couldn’t afford even a simple cremation. Mine comes from watching grief get heavier than it ever needed to be. Mine comes from knowing that a little planning can spare the people you love from a very hard day. Hope doesn’t always look like a win. Sometimes it looks like not quitting. Sometimes it looks like making the next call with the same care as the first. Sometimes it looks like an Old Fashioned on the counter and the decision to look for meaning instead of escape. So we keep showing up. And day after day, I have to remind myself of this simple truth: nothing done with love and honesty is ever wasted.
There’s a moment at some gravesides that never leaves me. The prayer has been said. The final words have settled into the air. And just before people turn to walk away, someone lingers. Sometimes it’s a spouse who reaches out and rests their hand on the casket a second longer than expected. Sometimes it’s a daughter who leans in, whispering something only she needs to hear. Sometimes it’s a son who clears his throat, nods once, and steps back quickly, as if staying any longer might undo him. That pause tells me everything. It tells me love was here. It tells me something mattered. It tells me this goodbye carries weight. I have learned more about life, love, and legacy at a graveside than anywhere else. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t show up the same way twice. Some people cry openly. Some stand very still. Some tell stories through tears. Some stare at the ground as if they’re trying to memorize it. None of it is wrong. I’ve learned that love is almost always present, even when relationships were complicated. Even when words were left unsaid. Even when the story wasn’t neat or easy. Grief has a way of clarifying what mattered. And standing there, I’m always aware of this simple truth: one day, every one of us will be remembered in a moment like this. Not for what we owned. Not for what we avoided. But for how we loved. I’ve learned that people rarely talk about money at gravesides—but they carry it with them anyway. I’ve seen worry sitting just behind the eyes. I’ve heard the whispered questions later, once the crowd thins and the quiet returns. Who’s paying for this? What happens next? Did they leave anything in place? I’ve also learned that relief has a sound. I t sounds like a deep exhale. It looks like shoulders dropping. It feels like space—space to grieve without also having to scramble. I’ve stood with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those moments, grief was still heavy—love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. I’ve learned that the most meaningful moments are often the simplest ones. A hand placed gently on a casket. A name spoken out loud one last time. A pause long enough to let love catch up with loss. I’ve learned that nobody wishes they had said less. They wish they had said thank you. They wish they had said I forgive you. They wish they had said I love you one more time. I’ve learned that preparation is not the opposite of hope. It’s an expression of it. The families who experience the most peace aren’t the ones who avoided hard conversations. They’re the ones who faced them gently, ahead of time, and left fewer questions behind. Grief will always be heavy. Love makes it that way. But standing at gravesides has taught me this: what we do beforehand matters. Quietly. Faithfully. In ways that may never be noticed—but are deeply felt. And by the time they’re needed, they matter more than words. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty
No one warns you about the nights. People talk about the firsts. The first holiday. The first birthday. The first anniversary. But few talk about the first night. Or the second. Or the hundredth. Because night is different. During the day, grief has manners. It waits its turn. You answer texts. You run errands. You smile when you’re supposed to. You can almost convince yourself you’re doing okay. But at night, grief becomes bold. It becomes rude. All those manners are stripped away. When the house goes quiet, grief doesn’t whisper anymore. It speaks loud and clear. The other side of the bed stays empty. Not symbolically empty, but actually empty. Cold where warmth used to be. Still, where breath once rose and fell in the dark. You reach without thinking, then remember once again that she isn’t there. He isn’t coming back. The bed used to be a shared place. A place of conversation. A place where laughter echoed in the room. A place of intimacy — where you could be fully vulnerable and fully alive. A place where prayers were shared and whispered. A place where silence could simply be, without needing explanation. But now that same bed feels oversized. Like a room built for two that only one person is allowed to enter. Some nights you sleep on the edge, clinging to what feels familiar. Some nights you sleep in the middle, hoping closeness might still be possible. And if you’re honest, some nights you don’t sleep at all. Let’s tell it like it is. Night doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. It quietly tells the truth. And the truth is, you aren’t holding up all that well. You lie there listening to the sounds of a house that suddenly feels like a stranger. Every creak feels louder. Every tick of the clock is heavier. This is where loneliness settles in. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just steadily. People think loneliness lives in the heart. But at night, loneliness lives in the body. It’s the tightness that settles in your chest. The knots that twist your stomach. It’s the questions that arrive at 2:17 in the morning. What if I forget the sound of their voice? Their laugh? How long will this ache last? Is this what the rest of my life looks like? Night has a way of magnifying everything grief touches. Yes, I know people tell you that you are not alone. Friends and family remind you that God is with you. And they mean well, they really do. But at night, faith can feel thin. Even the promises can feel quiet. That doesn’t mean faith is gone. It means it’s quieter than it used to be. Faith after loss often changes its tone. It becomes quieter. Less certain. More honest. The confident prayers from before may give way to borrowed ones. Or to silence. Or to a single whispered name in the dark. If faith feels fragile at night, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It means it’s carrying weight. This is the part we don’t talk about enough. Night is brutal. But believe it or not, night is also sacred. There is the lamp left on because total darkness feels unbearable. Or that favorite chair that still holds his shape, the one no one else can sit in. And the blanket, the one you reach for because it still carries her scent. These small things become altars. Unlikely Altars , but altars all the same. Quiet ones. This is where love still shows up. Not to fix the pain. Not to hurry healing. Just to sit with you while the world sleeps. Please hear this clearly. If the nights are lonely, you are not broken. If sleep comes in fragments, you are not failing. If the quiet feels louder than the day, you are not doing grief wrong. What you are doing is not weakness. You are loving someone who mattered. You are learning how to breathe in a house that remembers. And even when the room feels empty, love has not left it. Not really.