Chapter Four: Welcome the Scar

Chapter Four: Welcome the scar

I remember the evening I sat in church staring at the back of a man’s head. It was not just any man; it was the man that would eventually become my husband! However, my first encounter with him was indeed, staring at the back of his head. He had shaved all of his hair off at that point so I noticed a scar that he had. I now know what it came from, but then, I had no idea what caused it. Only that I was curious. And most definitely wanted to know more. Not that I had any ulterior motives or anything for getting to know him. Not that I baked him cookies in an effort to win his affection or anything. Not that I stalked his house night and day or anything. I would never do that…

Scars are funny little things aren’t they? The initial blow to your skin that causes an open wound is generally very painful that in the moment you are not thinking to yourself, “oh gee I can’t wait for this to scar over.” No, you are usually screaming or crying or if you’re a tough cat you are holding it in, or you are simply looking for a way to stop the pain.

I recall the day my mom finally got the courage up to leave my dad, once and for all. We had left him numerous times in the past, but this time, I knew it was different. In the past, we had left when he was passed out, usually creeping over his sleeping body. It’s not easy to sneak four kids, one of whom was a newborn, out of the house, but my mother managed to do it on more than one occasion. For whatever reason though, my dad would always woo her back with his empty promises of a life that would change.

This time was different though. He was not passed out. We were not tip-toing around his limp body in fear of what might happen if he woke up. We were not rushing to the car to escape to a relative’s house yet again. No, we were at home. And Jimmy was there.

For much of my life I have refereed to my father as Jimmy. When talking to anyone about him, I never liked to call him dad. Because he was not my dad. A dad does not do the things to their children that he did to us.

But somewhere along the way, as I grew older in my walk with the Lord, my heart softened. Honestly, I have not called him Jimmy in years. I have to wonder if the reason I did that to begin with was out of fresh pain. When a wound is initially gained on a person, it hurts! So we do all that we can to stop the hurt. We try to apply pressure, we use band-aids, and we seek medical attention. And amidst all of that, if we are in extreme pain, we will say and do things that are not within the confines of our normal character.

If that’s how it goes when we find ourselves in physical pain, we have to assume it’s the same for emotional pain. We all, at one point or another, will come to a place of emotional trauma, leaving us frantically wandering around in an attempt to do all we can to stop the pain.

Often times we make choices out of that pain that incidentally cause us more harm than they do good. We choose to get involved in wrong relationships; all the while knowing the person is toxic for our well-being. Or we numb ourselves with drugs or alcohol, risking so much for a momentary peace. Perhaps we lose all hope that anything good will ever happen to us and so we give up.

Friends, I beg you to hear this: if we give up in the midst of the pain, we forsake the opportunity for the scar.

Now yes, a scar is not attractive by any means. I have a huge scar on my knee that my grandpa wanted to have removed when he paid for me to go into modeling school. Yes, you read that right. The girl that felt ugly since Kindergarten went to modeling school as a pre-teen. You can imagine how that went…

Anyhow, scars are unsightly. Most people don’t think to themselves “oh my how I’d love a scar, it’s so beautiful.” In fact, people get them removed. But think about it like this, a scar is beautiful to the person that endured the original pain. Because they remember how much it hurt.

A scar is ugly? Tell that to the woman who endured a mastectomy and yet has went on to conquer cancer through taking the necessary treatments. Sure she endured tremendous difficulty with it, but as she stares at herself in the mirror, that scar reminds her of the champion she has become.

A scar is ugly? Tell that to the man that bravely fought in Vietnam. He risked his life to preserve the honor of this great nation and in so doing lost both of his legs. As he stares in the mirror at the scars on his body, he stares in the face of a hero.

A scar is ugly? Tell that to the single mother, doing her best to raise her kids. She decides to leave the abusive man that has left numerous physical wounds on her face. As she stares in the mirror at the damage he has done, she stares into the face of a brave woman.

A scar is ugly? Tell that to the young woman, abused and rejected by her father. Forced to grow up far too early, helping to raise her siblings. The pain inside of her heart is unbearable. Until she meets Jesus. And He begins to walk her through healing…it’s long, it’s hard, it’s at times painful. But slowly, over time, forgiveness begins to win the game, the pain begins to subside. And before she knows it, she stares into the mirror, and she see’s me.

We remember the pain. So we welcome the scar.

As I stood on the worn red brick that surrounded our fireplace, my siblings all lined up next to me, my seven year old heart was nowhere near the scarring point. In fact, what took place next is a wound that took years and years to scar.

My mom had finally done it, she finally made up her mind that she had taken all could take. This was it, she was divorcing my dad, not that I even fully knew what that meant. I did however know this, this was different; we were not sneaking out, we were not afraid, we didn’t have to be quiet…except we were. I recall my dad kneeling down in front of us, trying his best to say goodbye. As he stood there in a white t-shirt, the only thing I actually focused on him saying was “you’re mom is making me leave.” Everything after that was a blur. It was a blur because I was trying my hardest not to cry. I wanted to cry. I desperately wanted to cry. I had a lump in my throat that was so painful, you know the familiar feeling you get when you know you need to release the emotion that your neck actually hurts? I felt that. But my seven year old wounded heart was not about to give that man the satisfaction of seeing me cry. It was all I could do to keep that emotion inside. But I did it. And in that moment, I was proud that I did. He did not deserve to see me cry. After all, it was his fault.

Even still, there is something so deep in a little girls heart that longs to be able to share emotion with her father. But thus began many years of keeping my emotions bottled up inside, not willing to share them with anyone. Just in case they too choose to reject me, as my father did.

I’m so thankful for scars. That pain has scarred over now, and if you sit with me for more than ten consecutive seconds you are liable to see my emotion! There’s no holding the floodgates back anymore. I probably need to work on that actually! But it’s me. I cry. I laugh. I get mad. Then I cry some more. I’m just wired that way. I stuffed all those feelings down for far too much of my life so lookout folks, the Jen you get now may be a little overboard with emotion, but I can’t help it. I blame the scars. And then I thank them.