We were gathered on the church lawn looking at chalk-drawn,
spaced-apart circles and hashing out last minute details for our first
in-person worship service since March. I was in a deep discussion with a newly
retired police officer about the police reform bill recently passed in our
state of Colorado. I heard the sound of rocks hitting chain-link fence and
immediately walked across the parking lot to tell my six and eight year old sons
to stop throwing rocks at each other. My eight year old said “but mom, I want
to get a scar!” I said “why would you want a scar?” He simply replied “they
look cool.”
While I can assume that he was thinking more “Harry Potter
lightning bolt” type scars, I thought about my own (less exciting) scars. My
kids love when I tell the stories of my scars, especially the permanent bump on
my lower lip. I tell them about the trip to K-Mart to get new shoelaces for my
sister. I was only two years old and sitting in the front part of the shopping
cart. I saw a beautiful pair of Smurf shoelaces. Surely, these were the ones
she would want. I tried to tell my family but after repeated attempts I took
matters into my own hands. I reached and reached and reached until … the next
thing I knew I was going home with my two front teeth in a plastic baggie and a
stitched lip.
I have changed a lot in the 37 years since I got that scar,
but it is still here on my body. A constant connection to that little girl. A
connection to that memory of my mother as a young mom, my big sister whom I
adored and that feeling of being very cared for even in scary times. My scars
are also reminders that I have been through hard things … that I can get
through hard things.
I recently overheard a conversation between my two sons. The
youngest said “my fish died and that was really hard and sad” my oldest then
said “but I had surgery when I was a baby and that is harder.” I do not know
why, but they were each trying to prove that they had endured something more difficult
than the other. I can understand then the appeal of a scar, a way of proving
that you went through something really hard. A sign for others and ourselves
that we can get through difficult things.
I thought about all of this as I sat in the sweltering sun
with my mask on, listening to the cantor and organist through the speakers on
the church lawn. We did it; we were together. It was very different than how we
worshipped before the pandemic, but as I looked up to the blue sky and watched
a yellow butterfly glide down over the carefully spaced apart heads I felt so
incredibly grateful. We were all together again. We were all getting through
something difficult. We are resilient and some day we will look at the cloth
face masks tucked away in the back of our closets and it will be our scar. Our
sign to ourselves and to others that we can get through difficult times.
