My Sunshine Song: "It hurts when you get an owie..."

"...but THEN you get a "Ninja Turtle" or "Frozen" bandaid!
Or, maybe even a cool ice pack."

(Kai, 5)

When we are in pain, we just want relief.

We can't see beyond the bandaid or pain reliever or ice pack.

It's amazing what kind of "healing power" lies in an adhesive bandage bearing Elsa or Michelangelo's face. Other "magical" remedies in our household include the Piggy/Penguin/Froggy faced icepacks in the freezer and kisses from Mommy or Daddy. After one or all of the above responses to a bump or bruise or general overreaction, the injured child is calm, cool, collected and no longer screaming or writhing in pain. It's a miracle.

But often times, after we have treated a wound and the initial pain has subsided, we are left as spectators of the healing--and sometimes, the development of a scar.

A scar that serves as a reminder not only of the pain, but also of the healing.

It's when I'm in the bath tub that I really notice mine.

The two prominent scars on each of my legs--one on my left shin from box jumps to literal failure in my college basketball conditioning class. The other, on my right knee, from a jagged boulder on the banks of the Deschutes river, where I had spent the day riding rapids with my Campus Life group as a teen. I had sea legs and was fatigued from the heat and adrenaline of paddling for my life and slipped on the walk back up to the van (I usually omit that last part and just tell inquirors that I acquired it on a "white water rafting trip"). Looking down at my strong legs and contemplating those scars feels quite similar to flipping through old photo albums. I run my fingers over the scars like an old image, frozen in time, and let my soul drink in the view from the bridge that connects the past to the present.

I don't feel quite the same nostalgia about the scars that line my midsection--stomach and hips. The scars that I wear there tell the story of a belly swollen with life. A belly bursting at the seams that gave way to angry streaks that seem to brag about how my tummy used to be flat with cute little belly button ring on tanned, flawless skin. But you know what's funny? Today, despite the extra baby weight, wider hips and larger sizes, I feel lighter than ever.

And then there's the other scar that changed my life right along with the stretch marks from the little boy it came with. And it happens to be right above the left side of my son's sweet, shy, smile. The scar that is a part of him, but doesn't define him. The scar I prayed and cried over when it was swollen, bloody and stitched up after I brought him home from his cleft lip repair at barely 5 months old. The scar that joins the delicate pale skin that I taped together in prep for the operation from the time he was six weeks old. The scar that he embraces as part of him, his story. A scar that has shaped his smile and my soul.

"Chicks Dig Scars."

Scars have the power to not only show where you were, but what you have become.

They tell painful stories, but from their imperfection reflect hope and strength and healing.

Our skin is just a canvas.

When I lean in and look closely at the marks that stretch across my stomach or the way Kai's smile pulls a little higher on the left, I feel the hand of The Artist at work.

I feel His scars, and rest in His grip.