I have a small scar on my thumb from a science experiment in school. I don’t remeber the full experiment any more, but I know we had to break open a glass tube and our teacher was very specific about how we should break this tube. The man spent what seemed like forever nsisting we break it away from ourselves so as not to create an injury.
The way we were supposed to break thus tube seemed so natural to me, but I placed m thumbs just so as shown and broke down. Some how I managed to stab my thumb with one of the broken ends of the tube. My teacher basically freaked out that even after all of his cautioning someone went and got hurt. He was more worried about the injury record than the fact that it was deep enough to require stitches. A whopping total of four.
I learned two valuable lessons from that experiment. The first one is that I have to watch them when they out in my stitches. His is required no matter how icky it might seem. Since that time aive watched countless needles going into veins, thread being pulled through skin and bones being pushed back into place. For some reason watching it happen somehow makes it real.
The second lesson I learned was that if something doesn’t feel natural I will end up getting hurt in some way. This lesson, though, required me to flesh it out a bit. I didn’t realize that it was applicable to all aspects of life. Trying to be who I am not resulted in a disasterious relationship. Affecting behavior that wasn’t my natural one resulted in a mass of miscues and screw ups. In the end it all boils down to the same thing that caused the scar on my thumb, doing something that was unnatural to me.
Every time I look at the scar I am reminded of those two lessons. And when I catch sight of the scar on Beloved’s chest I’m reminded of another lesson. His scar is from surgery, a battle with cancer. And after he recovered from that he went a few bouts with pneumonia. When I see that scar I am reminded how deep love runs and precious time is with our loved ones.
Sometimes I will run my finger up that pinkish scar of his, the one that made my heart stop cold and my blood turn to ice, just tracing it. And when I do I feel warm flesh, I can hear a beating heart and I am grateful for each precious inhale of air, beat of the heart and movement of his fingers. I am reminded how fortunate we are and how lucky it is to be able to have walked away from his cancer with a bit of missing tissue and a scar.
Now scars doesn’t scare me, after all they are messages of battles fought displayed upon our skin. The way I see it, it’s impossible to live life without acquiring a few scars here and there. It’s what you make of them, how you handle them that makes the differences.