The Scar

For most of my life I have been incredibly protective and discreet about a scar I have on my upper right leg.  It marks a childhood cancer scare and a week in our city’s pink palace, a hospital.  Most of my friends are not even aware of this scar, even those I have spent time with on the beach or in pools.  I have hidden it, cleverly, most of my life – until now.

Last week, my daughter had one of those days that all of us moms dread when we have a girl – the day that other girls hurt them.  We all know these days are coming.  The minute the doctor says, “It’s a girl.” A flash of the sharpest-tongue, meanest-spirited junior high girl you’ve ever known pops in your head.  OH,NO!

So, when Eden told me her sad tale of rejection, I was semi-prepared.  What I wasn’t prepared for was her long pause and decision to withhold any more information about her insecurities until she was confident that I had once visited this emotional place myself.

She glared deeply into my eyes and asked, “Mom, have you ever been left out?”

At that moment I could honestly see that all she has ever known is two very outgoing parents that typically plan the party and persuade the wall flowers that the middle of the room is safe.

“Yes,” not even realizing that I was about to reveal to her my most hidden secret.

“When I was in second grade I had to go to a lot of doctor visits.  At one of the visits I was told that I would be having a surgery because I had something on my leg that could cause me to get really sick.”  I said wondering if she would even care.

“What happened?” she leaned in wanting to know all of the details.

“Well, they scheduled the surgery for the last day of school before the Christmas break so that I wouldn’t miss a lot of school.  But, what they didn’t know about that day is that it was the day of the big Christmas musical and that all of the second grade kids would be a part of this musical except for me.  So, each and every practice for the three weeks leading up to that day, I sat along the gym wall alone.  I would watch my friends laugh and sing and whisper while on stage together and sometimes they would whisper and point at me.” I said shocked I still remembered.

“How did that make you feel, Mom?”

“Truly left out and like I didn’t have any friends for a while.”  I concluded.  “But it didn’t last forever and now I try to pay attention to the people who feel on the outside because I can relate to how they are feeling.  It was a gift.”

And so I immediately recognized that my scar was a tremendous gift.  That silly, insignificant scar on the back of my leg that I have hidden for way too long is actually  now a prized possession marking an experience that I had that won the trust of my baby girl.  Thank you, Lord, for my scar.

How many other scars do I bear that have been masked instead of used?  Or maybe I should say how many gifts do I not give away?

Maybe we should quit asking, “Why me?” and just say, “Thank you for choosing me.”