Scars

On my right foot is an odd shaped red mark. A scar. From grease from a wayward fried potato no less, it corresponds with the black dot that sits just below my big toenail on that same foot. That was the result of meeting the wrong end of a very sharp number 2 pencil that was left on the floor, and I am barefoot, alot. (See previous scar). I carry scars from childhood, from my children’s childhood, from wrecks, accidents and from carrying five babies within my body. I also carry other scars, most of us do, from life. Some are so deep, I do not remember their origin for they are such a part of me. Others are fresh and raw and with the right word or touch can either heal or re-open. These I guard out of fear of fresh blood. Others are badges of sorts. See, I have the mark but I have healed, I have persevered , I recovered, I moved on. My scars are small and inconsequential to everyone but me. Everyone has scars, marks of trespasses on their body and soul. Some are very bitter because of these marks of imperfection. Others are proud and will gladly tell the stories of their battles. There are still others who look with disdain on these imperfections and try to hides their own scars from the world. I think scars are beautiful for I am loved by one whose scars were caused by me! I am the one who should have them, but he took them for me. As a mother I would gladly take any scar,pain or wound for my children to save them from grief, but to take on that for someone who doesn’t acknowledge me, love me or know me? I admit I am too human for that kind of sacrifice and love. Thankfully my father was not. My Father, my God adored me from birth and gladly without hesitation took my scars. How can I not show him love for that!