Looking back over the years, I am often struck by the strange trajectory of grace in my life. If I were to name the thread that runs through it, I would call it this: a calling that emerged from wounded places. What I once wished to forget has become—over time—a mark of faith and a sign of mercy.
A Childhood Marked by Scars
I was born into an ordinary Christian family in rural Henan. My mother was a quiet and devout believer who regularly took me to village gatherings. My father, by contrast, was a committed atheist. Whenever faith was mentioned, he would smile and shake his head. He did not openly oppose my mother’s belief, but neither did he share it. My childhood unfolded in that quiet tension—prayers in one room, sighs in another.
Then, when I was nine, everything changed.
It was a summer afternoon, the sunlight sharp and bright. I was crouched on the steps outside our home with two friends, playing cards. Suddenly, I heard heavy panting behind me. I turned, and the neighbor’s wolfhound lunged.
It seized the hem of my clothes and knocked me to the ground. The tearing pain burned like fire. I tried to struggle free, but it dragged me down again and again. Before I lost consciousness, I felt blood streaming down from my forehead. It blurred my vision like a red curtain. Through it, I caught a glimpse of my mother’s face, frantic and pale, and heard her cry for help—her voice fading as darkness closed in.
When I regained consciousness, I was in a hospital bed. The lights were too bright to open my eyes fully. My mother held my hand tightly. My father stood nearby, his eyes swollen and red. Dozens of stitches lined my forehead. There were faint traces of blood on the bedsheet beside me. Later I learned that it was the first time my father had cried in front of others. He could barely bring himself to look at my bandaged head.
We assumed the worst had passed. It had not.
Several months later, the scar behind my ear began to grow abnormally. The tissue thickened and swelled, eventually forming a large keloid that pulled my right ear out of position. My parents took me from hospital to hospital for surgery. The growth was removed. Two years later, it returned. Another surgery followed. This cycle continued for six years.
Before each procedure, doctors would calmly explain that I had a “special constitution” and that the condition might never be fully cured. I could sense my parents’ helplessness. They spent their savings and borrowed money, hoping only that I might grow up without disfigurement or social stigma.
When I was fourteen, on the night before what would become my final surgery, my father finally broke down. He sat silently beside my hospital bed for a long time, then said quietly to my mother, “You’ve believed in God for so many years. Teach me how to pray. Let’s try—just once.”
That night, after the lights were turned off, the three of us knelt on the hospital floor. My mother wept openly. In my heart, I prayed for the first time with both fear and hope: “Lord, if you are truly there, please help me.”
Three weeks later, at my follow-up appointment, the doctors were surprised. The abnormal growth had completely stopped. The tissue had returned to normal. Three months passed. Then six. There was no recurrence. The hospital described the outcome as a miracle and even used my case for publicity.
But for our family, the deeper turning point was this: my father had prayed—and believed that he had been heard.
After that, he began attending church. The man who once dismissed faith picked up a Bible for the first time. When he later shared his testimony, he said through tears, “God healed my son—and he healed my heart.” From that point on, our entire family was changed. The scar on my forehead became a visible reminder of that grace.
The Healing of Fear
Physical healing did not mean immediate emotional healing. For years, I was afraid of dogs. Whenever I heard barking, I instinctively stepped back. Sometimes I would wake at night from dreams of the attack. More deeply, I wrestled with questions about God. If he is loving, why allow such suffering?
One Sunday in church, a teacher spoke about the suffering of Christ. She emphasized that Jesus had committed no wrong yet endured profound injustice and pain. That thought unsettled me. Innocence does not prevent suffering. The cross did not remove the reality of pain—it reframed it.
Gradually, I began to see my own wound differently. Perhaps it was not punishment. Perhaps it was a place where I would encounter both vulnerability and mercy. In time, our family even adopted two small dogs. To my surprise, I no longer felt fear. The change was quiet and gradual, not dramatic—but real.
Looking back, I notice details that once seemed incidental: the dog did not bite my face; the surgeries, though painful, were never life-threatening; that hospital room became the place where my father first prayed. What I once called tragedy had, in time, become formative.
From Science to Calling
If childhood introduced me to faith, university forced me to consider what it meant to respond.
I studied molecular chemistry at Wuhan University. The laboratory often smelled of ethanol; instruments hummed steadily. I was fascinated by reactions invisible to the naked eye, by the order woven into atoms and molecules. The deeper I studied, the more I sensed both the brilliance and the limits of human reason. There is coherence in the material world—but explanation alone does not satisfy the human longing for meaning.
During those years, I became deeply involved in Luojia Church in Wuhan, a young urban Reformed congregation. The preaching was serious and grounded; the fellowship was close-knit. At first, my faith remained largely intellectual. But leading a student fellowship group changed that. One evening, a young man in tears spoke of despair and unexpected redemption. In that moment, the gospel ceased to be merely doctrinal—it was lived reality.
Two passages of Scripture during my junior year stayed with me:
“He comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction” (2 Corinthians 1:4, ESV).
“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21, ESV).
I began to wonder whether the comfort I had received in childhood was meant to be extended to others. For two months I prayed daily, asking what obedience would require.
Academically, I was eligible to pursue graduate study in chemistry. Yet my interests were shifting—first toward psychology, then more fundamentally toward theology. When my pastor asked whether I had ever considered studying theology, the question unsettled me deeply.
After much prayer, I recognized a pattern: from chemistry to psychology to theology—a movement from the study of matter—to the study of the human heart—to the study of God. I relinquished the security of a guaranteed academic path in China and applied to seminaries in the United States. All seven schools I applied to accepted me. What had felt uncertain gradually became clear.
I eventually enrolled at Calvin Theological Seminary. On the eve of my departure, my mother said quietly, “The fact that you are alive is grace. Now you must respond to that grace with your life.” Her words remain with me.
A Lesson in Surrender
My first year in seminary brought another test. Because of visa timing, I missed scholarship deadlines. Tuition and rent quickly became sources of anxiety. I pursued every practical option for financial support, but discouraging responses accumulated.
In prayer, resentment surfaced. Had I not already given up much?
Then Romans 12:1 confronted me: to present ourselves as living sacrifices is our “spiritual worship.” I began to see that my understanding of service had been subtly transactional. I had assumed that sacrifice guaranteed provision. Yet service itself is grace.
In repentance, I relinquished my expectations. An unexpected steadiness followed. Within a month, scholarship funds were granted—more than anticipated. A work-study position also opened unexpectedly. Provision followed surrender, but the deeper lesson concerned motive.
Gradually, my question shifted from “What will God give me?” to “What does it mean to belong wholly to him?”
The Scar That Remains
The scars on my forehead and behind my ear remain faintly visible. They no longer represent fear. They mark formation.
From a wounded child to a theology student and now a doctoral researcher in theology and religious studies, I see continuity rather than rupture. Suffering did not negate calling; it shaped it.
If I could speak to my younger self, I would not promise an absence of pain. I would say only this: the wound will not define you—but it will form you. The God who was present in that hospital room remains present still.
