B-log

“Through the observation of scars, it is possible to know the darkest and deepest hideaways of the human soul. Every time we look at a scar we tend to wonder how they got them. I am attracted to the idea of surrounding myself with those stories.”
Sebastian Utreras

Is there such a thing as a non-fascinating scar story?

Even a story that would be otherwise mundane becomes interesting if a scar is involved.

Exhibit A:  

Regular story - Dude, I got a hangnail.

Scar story - Dude, I got a hangnail…and it ripped all the way down into my finger, leaving this nasty little scar.

See, more interesting because of the scar.

A few years back, I was on a flight where the man in the emergency door row wore an eye patch. As I passed him, I noticed a zigging scar peek from the bottom of the patch. As I made my way back to my cramped spot in 36D, right in front of the air toilet (meaning I’d have a flight full of awkward eye-contact with bladder-issue people waiting in line to do their business), I found myself inventing stories for the heroic pirate up in the emergency row. If anyone on my flight was an air marshall, it had to be this guy. And he was going for the “over the top” approach to throw off potential terrorists. He looked seasoned, battle-tested, and emotionless. This guy could make Jason Bourne look like a girl scout. He probably lost his eye liberating hostages from an obscure terrorist stronghold. With my own private Rambo on board, I wouldn’t have to devise my own way to save the plane (and, yes, I have actually done that — it involves a fire extinguisher, the phone provided in the back of the middle seat, and my Bible — don’t worry. I’m watching for the bad guys).

Anyway, I’d probably be disappointed to learn this guy is a sympathy card writer for Hallmark who’s wearing a patch to heal from a genetically-induced detached retina, and the scar was actually just a well-developed wrinkle.

My own scar stories are my “war tales” of life’s grand adventures. Here’s a sampling:

Exhibit B: A small cashew-shaped scar on my upper right hip. At five years old, I was at the park with friends as part of a day-care program. I was on the merry-go-round, hanging off the side. somehow, some vortex sucked me under, and proceed to treat me like a pebble in a blender. Amidst my screams for deliverance, I can still remember my friend Angel’s chilling peals of laughter, hollering “Faster teacher, go faster!” (I’m not bitter).

Exhibit C: A 1/3 inch (not that I’ve measured) downward-pointing triangle scar on the left side of my right pectoralis (near my sternum). At 12 years old, while swimming at a local pool, a younger boy approached me, and with an attitude that I now identify with demoniacal possession, stabbed me with his thumb nail. I bled profusely. They emptied the pool. The boy was never charged with assault.

Exhibit D: A 1 inch-by 2 inch oval scar on my right top of the wrist. Also obtained at 12 years. On a day of snow-mobiling, I mounted an innertube being pulled by my dad’s Arctic Cat (you have to say those words in a fast whisper to really appreciate they dynamic quality of the snow mobile). As I was being pulled, my hand slipped under the tube, and the flap of the glove folded up. As I was being pulled on a snowy county road, the dirt, snow and gravel chewed up my wrist. At the end of the ride, I saw the wound in painless fascination, as it was frozen. A nurse friend who was there, took me in and scrubbed it with a toothbrush to clean it. Rapid thawing occured during the procedure, bringing both the noise and the pain.

Exhibit E: On my left outer elbow, a cartoonish excamation point-shaped scar, obtained at 16 in football practice. A teammate, Benjie Berg, in between plays, in the spirit of frivolity, attempted to drive his helmet through my arm. The attempt failed. But I carry this life-long reminder of young Benjie’s industrious and never-give-up attitude.

Exhibit F: A series of small unusually shaped scars on the underside of the same wrist, and also at irregular locations on various fingers and knuckles of the right hand. Obtained at 19 years old. In my BC life, at a fraternity party, I punched through a double-paned window compelled by the dysfunctional logic that beating up a harmless window would make my point more vividly. Probably some essential display of the presence of testosterone in my system. Well, those crazy laws of physics held true and blood was spilled. I went to the emergency room to get cleaned up and stitched up. While there, I (very maturely) decided I was tired of waiting, so decided to go back home. I confidently walked out through the in door, and soon discovered I had no idea whatsoever where I was or how to get home. I had enough sense to elevate my hand above my heart, and was found about 30 minutes later wandering the streets of Denver looking at street signs with my hand raised above my head. I returned the next day to receive treatment, this time without a local anesthesia. The administering nurse took undue pleasure in my stupidity.

For every scar story I have, my brother has 5, and each one is better (sic) than mine. He’s got scars from bullet wounds, car wrecks, motorcycle vs. barbed-wired encounters, knife wounds, man vs. St. Patrick Day Parade Float encounter (guess who won), and so on. I don’t know that he’s any more proud of his than I am of mine, especially when extenuating factors are implicated.

The truth is, I bear no ‘scars of honor.’ I’ve never been wounded for sharing the gospel. I’ve never lost a limb for believing in Christ. I’ve never been attacked for telling the truth. All my scars do is testify to my flesh.

To get spiritual for just a moment, I believe that scars will be the only man-made thing in heaven. I believe Jesus will bear His scars for eternity. The Bible says (Revelation 5) declares that the one worthy to open the judgment scroll of God looks like a lamb as though slain. In the Old Testament, Isaiah speaks graphically on the wounds sustained by the Christ. Jesus, in His resurrected form, bears the wounds of the cross on his wrists before the apostles. I DO believe Jesus will be resurrected and glorious in heaven, but I believe His scars will be the eternal reminder of the depth and breadth of His love for us. And there will be no shame in His scar stories.