Beautiful Scars

Scars are ugly. They are a blight on otherwise smooth, congruous skin. I have several scars--more than my share.

I have a scar on the edge of my right nostril. When I was 4 years old, I decided to climb up the wobbly table on which our television stood, to perch myself atop the television. Why? I have no idea. I have always been adventurous, and though I don't remember my reasoning or ultimate goal, I imagine I thought it to be an exciting quest. Unfortunately, I slew no dragons, rescued no helpless female, and topped no mountain. Instead I fell. And also unfortunately, I pulled the television over with me. It landed on my face. Now I have an ugly ridge on my right nostril in remembrance.

I have a scar on my forehead from my second bout with chicken pox at the age of nine. It looks like the hole in the new jar of peanut butter after one of my children scoops a spoonful out. Scooped out skin.

When I was 14 my father (against my will) was teaching me how to slap bunt. As I swung the bat, I squeezed my eyes shut. Apparently, the ball hit the end of my bat and aimed itself for the largest target it could find--my nose. I guess technically it's not a scar, just a large lump on my until-then-perfectly-straight nose. I still have trouble breathing sometimes.

I have a small scar on each breast and on the front of each thigh. When I was about 11, we were camping in the mountains. My father sent my brothers and me to gather firewood. In the dark. With one small rather weak lantern. He decided it would be funny to jump out from behind a tree and scare us. He definitely scared me. I ran as hard as I could.... directly into a barbed wire fence. I have never seen my mother so angry with my father.


The largest scar on my body is on the back of my left thigh. When I was 10 years old, I climbed the fence in our front yard to get to the bus stop. I could see the school bus coming down the street. We lived in south Texas and most of our yard was one giant mud pit pocked with crawdad holes. I didn't want to get yucky muddy, and the clean way through the yard was also the long way through the yard. Because of all of these factors, it seemed reasonable to climb the fence--the fastest way from point A to point B (thank you math teachers of the world) is a straight line--over the fence. Upon topping the fence, I began to panic. The bus was edging ever closer. All my bus stop friends began chanting, "Just jump! Just jump!" So I did. I thrust myself backward off the fence and directly onto a reflector pole that, until that moment, I never knew existed. It removed a nice sized chunk from the back of my thigh.

I have just one more scar you can see. It is not actually a scar but rather a group of scars. These scars are not from any kind of accident. They are stretch marks from pregnancy. The skin is thin and discolored, yet I don't view them in the same way I view the other scars on my body. I guess they are ugly, and yes I wish I had smooth perfectly beautiful skin. But as I look at those scars, I don't roll my eyes at my stupidity or cringe at the memory of pain. When I look at those scars, they speak to me. They remind me of new life. They speak of babies that needed just a little more room and so the skin had to give, had to sacrifice. They speak of tenderness and love. If it is possible, those scars are beautiful.

I have other scars. You can’t physically see them. I can only see them when I close my eyes. They are not discolorations on my skin but blights on my heart. They are scars of betrayal and abuse, scars of stolen innocence and exploitation. They are the scars of bad choices, lies, broken promises, shame, bitterness, and guilt.

There is no more open seeping wound. I have forgiven and moved on. But the scars are there. They will always be there. But my question is: Can scars be beautiful?

If I reflect on my life, I see decisions I have made, paths I’ve taken. I see heartache, brokenness, and anguish. But that is not all I can see. I see strength. I see endurance. I see forgiveness and mended relationships. I see healing. So those scars, those reminders of old wounds aren’t that at all. They are reminders of perseverance and growth, and I guess, to answer my own question, like the scars on my belly are beautiful, so are the scars on my soul.