on scars

This morning I was looking at a cut Trevor got on his leg at a cross country meet earlier this week.

Me: "That might leave a scar."

Him: "I hope it does."

Me: "Scars are awesome."

Him: "Scars are great."

He was out the door and I was left thinking more about scars. Memorials left on our skin to what we've come through, to the injuries that haven't gotten the best of us. Often, badges of pride. 

Trevor has one on his elbow (his "wenis," he'll tell you) from YCamp a couple years ago when he went to the hospital for stitches after some mattress-diving-fun-gone-wrong. He says it was the best day of his life.

I have one on my forehead from falling on a screwdriver when I was a toddler. I was hanging around my Grandpa outside, playing (and, apparently, picking up his tools and running with them!) while he worked on a project. When I touch the scar, I think of the nearness I had to my sweet Grandpa when I was growing up.

I'm guessing you have scars, too. Maybe from incidents that make you smile in the remembering, or maybe from scary times you're just grateful to have survived.

Someone once told me that every time we get a cut or scrape, and our body goes to work repairing and healing it, it's a little miracle happening before our eyes. I had never thought about it that way before, and it stuck with me. It's so true. For the smaller nicks, there often isn't even a mark left behind. But the deeper wounds get scars, probably because we're meant to remember what we've been through.