You’ll often hear older folks waxing poetic about the good ‘ole days when kids played outside, climbed trees, and weren’t afraid of a skinned up knee. I’ve slid down my share of impossibly high slides with no guard rails. I’ve spun so fast on merry-go-rounds that I nearly passed out and was eventually launched from the metal platform like a droplet of water flung from a shaking dog. I learned about centrifugal force that way. #science I’ve jumped on trampolines, and get this, there were other people on it at the same time!! Crazy, I know. I’m pretty sure the springs were extremely rusty as well.
One day, as a 10 year old on Summer break, some friends and I decided to have a rock war. What is that you ask? A rock war is where you pick teams, spread out, and throw rocks at each other. The goal, as far as I can remember, was to hit people on the other team. With rocks. I was hiding in a small copse of trees and someone lobbed a large rock, a boulder really, in my general direction. It plinko’d its way through the limbs and hit me squarely between the legs as I squatted in abject terror. Good times. My kids haven’t had as many “fun” experiences as I had, but Jaron does have a sweet scar on his left eyebrow. Despite his claims, he did not get it while defending a young lady from a bully in 7th grade. No, it actually involves a rope, a slightly spastic Dalmatian, a red wagon, and my Dad.
That wagon was a red, metal radio flyer. Legit. Old school. A metal box with wheels.
No safety features on that bad boy. It was meant to fly. When Jaron was just a little tyke, Granddaddy would pull him around on the wagon. Jaron was a tubby little fella and Granddaddy tired of the game long before Jaron did. What’s an enterprising senior citizen to do? Well, he decided to make use of the resources at hand, which happened to be a rope and a dog. He tied one end of the rope around the wagon handle and the other end of the rope around the collar of his 2 year old Dalmatian named Supertones. The results were … quite amazing. Granddaddy took Supertones out for a run every day and he was well trained. He stayed on the sidewalk and would obey, most of the time. Now there were three members of the running crew: Granddaddy, Supertones, and Jaron. The dog happily trotting along with the bouncing baby boy in the vintage red wagon.
They made quite a few trips without incident until that time Supertones took a sharp turn onto the sidewalk. The wagon tires caught, and without safety equipment of any kind on that metal death trap, Jaron was flipped from the back of the wagon. To this day Jaron isn’t quite an Olympic athlete, and as a toddler he just didn’t have the coordination to brace his fall. His forehead hit the curb and made a nasty little cut on his eyebrow. Granddaddy brought him back to the house, apologetic but unconcerned. Lianne and I looked at the cut. Jaron was terrified of doctors and needles. We decided to clean it ourselves, tape it up tight, and make sure he didn’t fall asleep. (Everyone knows that if you get a concussion and fall asleep right away you may never wake up. Is that even true, by the way?) In hindsight, maybe we should have gone to the doctors. It healed up fine, but it did leave a scar. Jaron is missing a few eyebrow hairs. I’m not sure if that negatively impacts his life. Perhaps when it is raining the water tends to drip into his left eye at a faster rate than his right eye? What a pain. Anyway, he bears that scar to this day.
That made me think about some of the scars my Dad had. He was branded by his experiences. Those old wounds told stories. Stories about motorcycle accidents and football games, and that time he battled a wild python in the Philippines, saving an entire village from destruction. I also thought about some of my scars. The soccer games, the magic tricks, the knee surgery, and that time my Dad died of cancer.
Scars are a testimony to a life lived. They are reminders of who we were, what we’ve done, and who we’ve become. They often represent moments of pain, but if we dig deeper we can usually find a reservoir of joy hidden below the surface. Jaron’s scar reminds us of how fun Granddaddy was, and of how much he enjoyed playing with his grandchildren. My lingering sadness over Dad’s passing is a reminder of how blessed I was to have him as a father and a friend. The scar on my left wrist reminds me of all the kittens I saved when the big dog got loose in the pet store and I had to restrain it with my bare hands.
Scars are pretty useful that way. They help us heal, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. They also serve as personal milestones. Think about how those scars shaped you and guided you. Don’t hide your scars. Look at them and reminisce.