I have a scar on my knee that I have had since I learned to ride a bike. Oddly enough, my sister has a similar scar on the same knee. Mine was from attempting to show off to the cute older neighbor boy and his friends. I rode out of my driveway on the most awesome hot pink BMX Mongoose and turned too quickly into the road. Not only did I skid across the gravel but part of my knee ended up picking up some of that gravel and then planting itself into our mailbox.
I still carry remnants of those rocks in my knee 20+ years later. They are one reason why I hate wearing shorts…because I hate that scar.
Why do we hate our scars? Do they reopen the wounds that initially caused them? We hide them…when in fact they could be used for good. When scars stay hidden, they only grow deeper in wounding the one who holds them.
Twice in one day I was confronted with this very topic, from two very contrasting places. Then I thought about what my own scars represent. They tell my story. A very raw, very deep story that has brought me to this very moment. They tell a story of approval addiction, boastfulness, and hurt. They say I was knocked down, dragged around, and pummeled…and I got back up. I see the outward scars now as a means to share life with others and how it knits all of our stories together.
It’s time we started understanding our scars in order to heal and then help others.