The Beauty of Scars
8:32 AMHeatherAs I mentioned last week, I was able to spend the day with a sweet friend I've known since we were eleven. Oh the memories that have flooded my mind as I think back through this day together. Jennifer and I were big on Sandi Patti and Psalty praise albums. Albums, mind you. Not tapes. Not CD's. No, those vinyl albums. Can you say children of the 80's? I can remember going to an Amy Grant concert together, as well as a Carmen concert. We had upteen sleep overs and logged miles upon miles cruising Key Avenue in our high school days in Lampasas. Jennifer's grandparents attended my dad's church, and our parents were friends, too. These memories bring a smile to my face, and the fact that I could spend time with Jennifer again brought a smile to my heart.
During our conversation, Jennifer let me know that a dear family friend of theirs had died of cancer. In his 40's. Way too young. Knowing how close he was to Jennifer's family, I felt saddened. Jennifer paused and said that she knows I can understand. She asked how it is for me now. Nearly twenty-three years after I lost my dad. Who was also in his 40's.
I sat quietly for a moment, pondering how to sum it up. How could I express the journey of grief, this far down the road? How could I encourage my friend traveling the same road, many years behind me? For the first time, a word picture came to mind. Something that sums it up as best as I could ever hope to.
I told Jennifer that at this point in grief, there's more sweet than bitter in the bittersweetness of the loss. The hard edge of grief has faded. The shock. The anger. The numbness. I'll always miss him. I'll always wish he was here. I'll always have a void in the space where he should be. But, now--it's like a scar more than a bleeding wound. The jagged edges of pain have healed a bit. The gushing of blood has stopped. Some healing has occurred in time. And in it's place is a scar. A battle scar. Showing the places where I've survived. Telling a story of pain, suffering, and gradually, a story of healing. The scar will never leave me. Nor would I want it to. Because I once considered it ugly. And glaring. And debilitating. Repulsive, even. Now, I see a beauty there. Because the scar tells the world of the hard journey of pain that has been survived. It tells of the beauty of resilience and hope and grieving forward. When others begin to show off their own scars in that comparison game of show and tell, I have something to show, too. I, too, can join in that conversation. I can pull back the sleeve and say, "See here? It also tells a story. It tells MY story. I've been wounded, too. And I found hope and was carried to a place of healing."
I think of concentration camp survivors and the numbers tattooed on their forearms. Tattoos that could be removed, if so desired. But, in countless interviews, I've seen these brave men and women pull back their sleeve and point to the number and say, "Don't forget! Don't forget the pain and the suffering and the horror. Don't forget the survival and the strength and the courage of those so branded."
No. We should not forget our journeys of pain. Our woundedness. Our bleeding. Our heart wrenching cries. And the hope that gradually seeps in, binding up the wounds.
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