What happens before a Scar?

I'm sitting in carpool line. If I time it just right, I can park directly in front of my daughter's classroom door. We are most often the first ones out of the gauntlet. I won't waste your time explaining the illogical rationale for this daily frenzy at 2:50. I will say only that I must arrive at least 40 minutes early to get my spot.

I told you it was illogical.

I spend that time reading, writing, or napping. The only blog I read daily is http://www.aholyexperience.com/. It arrives about the time I pull into my elite spot. If I'm not too cranky or tired, I read it. Some days I don't want to hear or think about pure or holy things. I can never grasp everything she is saying. Ever. I try to contemplate just one idea.

Anne is talking about scars today. As always, it's lyrical, lovely, and profound. After reading this, I have the odd desire to have more scars.

I have scars. There's the one on my bottom lip that juts out and makes a fabulous pout which I'm still inclined to use. This is my first lasting scar occurring just before my first birthday. It's a reminder that I've always, always been clumsy. Then there's the large one on my shin. The summer before 6th grade I was absolutely DONE with dark, long hairs on my legs. Dressed in jeans --in Houston, no less--to conceal my gash, I asked Mom if I could shave the day after my introduction to razors. She replied in no uncertain terms, "NO!" That scar is a reminder that my uninformed, impulsive behavior can cause injury. As a seamstress, I was mad as a hornet when a C-section was performed during my hysterectomy. Any self respecting sewer knows what happens when a straight line seam is sewn below an area with a curve. I didn't need a stitch to create a band for the excess to fold over, thank you. I cannot see that large scar, so it doesn't count.

For about a year after I took off the wedding band I'd worn perpetually for over 22 years, I had a white, atrophied circle on my left finger. I called it my scar. It was the only physical evidence of a gaping wound within.

Aside from my ring finger, I can touch any of the scars I've mentioned and I have no sensation whatsoever. They are painless.

If you are a visual reader and are grossed out easily, just click the red box and be done now.

Right now I'm pondering what happens before a scar forms a monument to a past wound. Obviously there is a wound first. The depth of the wound and the source of the wounding are critical to the care administered. If things go awry, bad stuff happens. Garden variety cuts and scrapes form a scab. That scab, when ready, will simply fall away revealing a white or pink layer of new skin. Sometimes there are accidents and the scab is ripped off before it's ready. Ouch. Then there are people like me, who, bless my stupid heart will pick that scab away. Mom still keeps band-aids at the ready. (Apparently there is a "picker" gene.) I cannot imagine how much worse I'd been if Hello Kitty and Micky Mouse band-aids had been in every cabinet in our home in the 70's. Even with the knowledge gained that picked scabs delay healing, I still did it. I will, in mindless moments, still pick at a scab. (I'm pondering that on an emotional level too, now. Hmmmm.)

I'm astonished at the mystery of watching something jagged, with dimension transform itself into new skin. New life. I'm even more fascinated by emotional healing.

This week I had this thought, "I think I'm recovering." Instead of being mired with impatience, anger, and worry, my days are filled with daily minutiae, joy, possibilities, and the normal frustrations of living in a broken world. My potty mouth has even improved. I considered, quite briefly, if I'm forming scar tissue.

Until one email from my ex-husband ripped the scab off the wound and I was oozing with rage, disbelief, even shame. That's why I'm thinking about scabs.

I'm wondering aloud if some wounds never heal completely in this life? Particularly ones involving loss and children. Ask anyone who has buried a child or someone who lives with a disability. I truly don't know.

I've been mad for several days that my scab was ripped off. I'm mad that I have an enemy. I hate that I have to keep an attorney on retainer. I'm incensed that co-parenting is not possible for me.

In the past, I would have directed that fear and anger inwardly and sat down like a bunny--blinded and scared by an oncoming car. That was then. This is now.

I'm directing my anger and frustration into the power that can thrust 30 pounds of steel weight over my head for the fourth set of 10. I'm using my electric sander on chairs bought at thrift stores and garage sales that will give my house a face lift. More importantly, I'm asking God to continue the work He started in me. I long for wholeness-which for me will include lots of scars. No doubt, more to come.

I love the passages of scripture that speak of Christ's resurrected body. Even that perfect new body had scars. It's because of His scars I know that, one day, I will be complete. For the time being, I find comfort that as Anne says, "He knows. He knows."

And so this afternoon I offer back my wounds and my scars and ask, "Lord, make me more like you."

**Full disclosure- I feel compelled to correct the idea that if available in the 70's I'd had smiley faces or Mighty Mouse adorning my body. My mother, in a million years would NEVER have bought those. If hidden cameras were available at the Cleburne Kroger, I'd bet the farm that EDaddy buys the fun band-aids available at Star Ranch. If I'm wrong, I'll agree to never to pick a scab again.