Since my conception I have been growing into this covering armor of flesh. From the beginning, pieces of me were chosen, mostly without my consent. I am a caucasian female, I do not have a penis. I have blonde hair, I do not have brown. I barely have a toenail on my pinky toenail. These were not choices I deliberately made, but came into the world as a prophetic incarnation.
I have become flesh and been made known in my daily walk. My walk has been easy and difficult at times. My flesh is my spirit’s PO Box; it is my soul’s residence. My flesh has had many twists and turns. And my scars, the patching together that occurred after bits of me were burned or ripped off, are the markings of my physical walk on this earth. My body did the best it could in the repair, in most cases.
I look at my scars, they are my stories, glorious raised beds of memory of this foolish flesh, sometimes innocent, sometimes in way over my head. My body is literally covered in stories. I retrace the tip of my finger over them and remember. I remember the time I tried to hurdle a barbed wire fence and ripped open open the back of my thigh when I was 10. Or the chicken pox scars in the middle of my forehead. The one on my ankle from a skateboarding accident. Or my favorite because they have been the most difficult to love, the stretch marks from growing too fast in puberty and in pregnancy and thereafter; especially the ones that streak down my breast that I didn’t even notice until after the infant was weaned.
Sometimes, there is a fear that whispers in my ear. The fear tries to tell me that I am less because of the scars and not more. That I am not a spirit inhabiting a body for a short time, just a body that happens to have a spirit. But that just makes me want to reach out and touch your scars, to know I am not alone.
If I was beside you now, I might touch the burn on your forearm and say “Jesus, that must have hurt like hell.” Or the one behind the base of your skull and know you wrestled a mighty demon. Or the one left by the removal of your spleen, after he beat you and just before it ruptured. Or the one above your lip from that bike accident in college.
Time does heal, but there is a scar that shows you can now tell the tale.