He’s Seen the Wounds

He didn’t leave Leeds for a fresh start.

He left because staying meant fear.

The flat was chaos —

tinfoil graveyard,

door kicked in,

violence crouched in every corner.

Even the bat he kept by the door got nicked.

He grabbed a burner,

but had no one to call.

Still remembered her number — his mum,

burned into him from his last stretch inside.

She’d sent him money for HMP Leeds,

told him to keep his head down,

get some credit on the canteen.

He spent it on white.

Hidden inside the shell of something meant for joy.

“I’ll call her when I’m clean,”

he’d been saying that for years.

He wrapped the phone tight,

tucked it beside his last rizla

and a smoke for the road,

then jumped a train to Newcastle.

Didn’t pay.

Didn’t care.

Just kept his head down

and his hopes lower.

Newcastle met him with stone and silence.

Strange accents.

Too many memories,

none of them his.

He tried Housing —

said he needed a bed,

maybe a shot at a new page.

They offered him a ticket back.

“No local connection.”

Like trauma had a postcode.

Like pain packed light.

He walked.

Found the market —

bins steaming,

pigeons scrapping,

a woman with bags feeding them

like they were worth something.

He settled outside McDonald’s.

Didn’t call it begging —

just said he was grafting.

Hadn’t eaten that day,

but food wasn’t the goal.

He needed spice.

Just a bit.

Enough to hush the voices

and give his bones sleep.

Most passed him like shadow.

But he had a knack for reading eyes.

Found enough nods,

enough loose change,

to make it through the next few hours

without losing his head.

Rain came sudden.

Northern.

He ducked into a church near the Monument.

Didn’t know the name.

Didn’t care.

It was dry.

He wasn’t looking for God.

Inside:

stone,

incense,

stillness.

He slid into the back pew,

legs twitching,

eyes scanning stained glass.

One panel caught him.

Christ —

not glowing,

just there.

Wounded.

Beside him, a man reaching forward,

like touch was the only thing left

that might make faith real.

Tom stared.

Felt something.

Buried it quick.

A priest — or something like one —

passed by, robes brushing dust.

Tom asked, without meaning to:

“What’s he doing? The lad wi’ the hand?”

“That’s Thomas,” the man said.

“Didn’t believe till he saw the wounds.”

He handed him a battered Gospel.

“John, chapter twenty.”

Tom took it.

Didn’t say thanks.

Didn’t know how.

That night, outside Maccies,

with the city humming

and his ribs counting hours,

he opened the book.

Found the line:

“Unless I see the nail marks…

put my hand in his side…”

He stopped.

Looked at his own arms.

Track marks.

Bruises.

Old pain drawn in ink

only he could read.

He whispered,

“God… have you seen these?

The places I go

when I can’t breathe?”

No answer.

Just the wind through wrappers.

But something held.

Not hope —

that would be too much.

But not nothing, either.

He read on.

Christ shows up.

Doesn’t shame.

Doesn’t fix.

Just stands there,

scarred and open,

saying:

Peace.

Tom closed the book,

held it like something warm.

He thought of Thomas —

not the doubter,

but the only one who touched

what others only saw.

He figured if faith was real,

maybe it wasn’t for the clean.

Maybe it was found in wounds.

And glory —

whatever it was —

looked more like scars

than stars.

He pulled out the burner.

Hand shook.

Thumb hovered.

Pressed call.

“Mum,” he said,

voice small,

like a lad again.

“It’s me.”

Somewhere,

between silence and static,

something holy

passed through the line.

And for the first time in years,

Tom didn’t feel lost.

He felt

seen.

-Rev'd Jon Swales