It was clean up time at The Kiddy Dude Ranch Preschool. I was 5, but I was no fool. I ran to the toy box to grab the last few seconds with my favorite toy of the day. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only kid with this great idea. In the hustle and chaos, I tripped and fell, the corner of my eye catching the sharp edge of a Tonka truck. The next thing I remember is a bright light in my eyes as I was being sewn up. If you look closely, you can still see a little scar above my left eye, even after all these years.
We remodeled our house when I was twelve. I was helping Dad in the upstairs addition, when a board gave through and I fell down a flight to the floor below. On the way down, I hit my head, which knocked me out. A nail ripped open my wrist and I was losing blood fast. At the hospital, they discovered I was also bleeding internally, but they couldn’t say from where without opening me up. Today, I have a scar on my stomach from the surgery and another on my wrist and hand.
I bear the marks of these injuries and others, a reminder of the road I’ve traveled. I’ll carry them with me for the rest of my life, but they aren’t the ones that matter. They’re just the ones you can see.
Five years ago today, as I’m writing this, I stood with my friends and family as we buried my father. Just two weeks before, my mom passed away in a separate event. Both of them were too young. Neither of them were expected, at least not then. I remember looking into the crowd and in disbelief saying, “Is this really happening? This can’t be real.”
It was the beginning of the hardest season of my life. Disappointment. Doubt. Rebellion. Lack of direction. Numbness… In an instant, I didn’t belong to anyone anymore. I didn’t have a place to belong on Sunday afternoon or Christmas Day. I had to re-believe everything I’d previously been convinced of. I had to relearn how to simply ‘be’ in the world. My sister described it best when she said, “How am I supposed to get through losing my Mom without my Dad?”
I eventually got back up and walked again – but I walk with a limp now. I bear a mark from that loss. I’m forever changed. It would be impossible to see through the same eyes, to think with the same mind, to feel with the same heart. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe our wounds leave scars behind to remind us that we’re different now, and that we’re meant to be. We know something that we didn’t before – about hurt, yes, but also about Healing – Hope – Patience – Compassion - Understanding – and Wholeness. Pain brings a kind of progress with it, even if it’s not what we would have chosen.
I’m not writing this post to share my sad story or to earn sympathy. If you walk away feeling sorry for me, you’ll have missed my point. I’m writing because we all have a sad story we could tell. We all bear scars from living, yet many of us do our best to hide them away. Maybe it’s time to embrace our scars as something we’ve earned – a reminder of what we’ve overcome and what we’ve been given.
What if pain left no mark on us?
Would we forget the road behind us?
The healing we’ve received,
The lessons we’ve learned,
The moments that have made us who we are?
They say time heals all wounds, but I’m not so sure it does. I’m not so sure it should. Maybe our scars are among the most important parts of who we are.
By Chance Scoggins
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