Wednesday
May232012
You Can't Beat Me: My Scars and Why I Love Them.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012 at 1:00PM
Dancing Under the Rain by Angelo González
Somewhere under my can’t-decide-if-it-wants-to-be-curly-or-straight brown hair, there is a scar from when a stuffed moose head fell on me as a baby.
Don’t ask. The details tend to get a bit fuzzy whenever I inquire, as is wont to do when a family story turns into myth and legend. All I know is that whenever I sit down for a hair cut, the hairdresser inevitably asks me, “So, where’d you get this scar?”
It’s fun to witness their facial expressions when I answer.
I have other scars too - a majority of them from badly-timed decisions having to do with knives. There’s a crescent moon on the pad of my left thumb where I sliced myself when I meant to slice cookie dough. On my left pointer finger is a reminder of why it’s important to use scissors - not a butter knife - to open an electronics package. (They shouldn’t make the packaging so darned difficult to open in the first place! But I digress.)
My left knee bears an ugly gash healed over from when I toppled during a campground game of pig hunt. (I was a pig. All the counselors were. Junior Highers can be vicious when there’s a prize on the line!) The shaving razor has not been kind at all to the back of my right ankle in my pursuit of smooth legs over the years. I have blocks of color leftover from lingering sunburns. On my wrists, you can see the faintest traces of lines drawn with scissors and safety pins because I thought I was all alone.
The world is sharp and painful, after all.
Needless to say, from head to toe, I have my fair share of scars, bruises, and injuries. Our skin is designed to take damage. But it doesn’t explain why we so often feel ashamed of the evidence left behind. These marks are a testament to our ability to survive the world’s inflictions - be they sinister or accidental. And yet we try so hard - as women, as humans - to cover them up or make them invisible. To pretend as if they don’t - and never did - exist.
We glorify those whose skin is smooth. And yes, even I will admit that there’s beauty to be seen in something flawless and innocent.
But not at the expense of demonizing our own scars. Each mark on my skin is a solid and firm testimony: I survived. I lived through it. I took my medicine. I’m still here today, and I’ll still be here tomorrow. You can’t beat me. I’m staying right here.
The world is sharp. But God gave us skin for a reason. It’s time to stop being so very ashamed of our scars.
Don’t ask. The details tend to get a bit fuzzy whenever I inquire, as is wont to do when a family story turns into myth and legend. All I know is that whenever I sit down for a hair cut, the hairdresser inevitably asks me, “So, where’d you get this scar?”
It’s fun to witness their facial expressions when I answer.
I have other scars too - a majority of them from badly-timed decisions having to do with knives. There’s a crescent moon on the pad of my left thumb where I sliced myself when I meant to slice cookie dough. On my left pointer finger is a reminder of why it’s important to use scissors - not a butter knife - to open an electronics package. (They shouldn’t make the packaging so darned difficult to open in the first place! But I digress.)
My left knee bears an ugly gash healed over from when I toppled during a campground game of pig hunt. (I was a pig. All the counselors were. Junior Highers can be vicious when there’s a prize on the line!) The shaving razor has not been kind at all to the back of my right ankle in my pursuit of smooth legs over the years. I have blocks of color leftover from lingering sunburns. On my wrists, you can see the faintest traces of lines drawn with scissors and safety pins because I thought I was all alone.
The world is sharp and painful, after all.
Needless to say, from head to toe, I have my fair share of scars, bruises, and injuries. Our skin is designed to take damage. But it doesn’t explain why we so often feel ashamed of the evidence left behind. These marks are a testament to our ability to survive the world’s inflictions - be they sinister or accidental. And yet we try so hard - as women, as humans - to cover them up or make them invisible. To pretend as if they don’t - and never did - exist.
We glorify those whose skin is smooth. And yes, even I will admit that there’s beauty to be seen in something flawless and innocent.
But not at the expense of demonizing our own scars. Each mark on my skin is a solid and firm testimony: I survived. I lived through it. I took my medicine. I’m still here today, and I’ll still be here tomorrow. You can’t beat me. I’m staying right here.
The world is sharp. But God gave us skin for a reason. It’s time to stop being so very ashamed of our scars.
But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.
~ 2 Corinthians 12:9.
What scars do you possess that you're proud of? Feel free to boast!
tagged inspiration, scars in introspection
inspiration, scars in introspection 
