Scars

I think I was a fairly obedient child, but when I was about five years old I did something of which I’m sure my parents did not approve. I don’t remember what happened exactly, but the story goes that I was jumping on my parents’ bed. I might have gotten away with it except, when gravity pulled me back down from what I’m sure was a joyful height, my knee landed on a sharp metal box. The doctor, a dear family friend, told me years later he was at a black tie affair when he received the frantic call from my mother. He took great pleasure in recalling how he stitched my knee up in his tuxedo. I have lived with this scar through childhood teasing and well-intentioned people suggesting, “Oh, you have a run in your stocking.” I don’t notice the scar anymore, but I like carrying the story with me.

Before moving into our first home, my husband and I were on a day trip and found a lovely pine table. We thought it would be perfect for our small kitchen, so we excitedly purchased our first piece of furniture. One day he came running into the kitchen shouting, “What are you doing?!” I was horrified to discover that my overzealous pounding of nuts with a meat mallet was making pockmarks on our new table. I don’t know what I was thinking. Bad idea. We still have the table and I now say the indentations add character, but I don’t think my husband will ever stop giving me grief!

Today, while cleaning up after the chili lunch at church, I had a conversation with someone in the kitchen about one of our rolling carts. The hard plastic top is blistered with a circular “scar” from carrying a hot pot of soup many years ago. The woman I spoke with smiles as she reminisces about the scar as it reminds her of the men who used it while sharing a soup lunch every month. Many members of this group are no longer living, but their memory lives on in a well-used cart, which heard the stories they shared. By carrying gallons of soup over the years, it also helped feed their hunger for friendship and God.