Scars

Scars.  We all have them.  Some more than others.  There are scars that are obvious.  Those that you can see.  Then there are those that are invisible to most.  Those that only a select few notice.  The ones that can only be seen in a wistful smile or a single tear running down your cheek.  The ones on your heart.

My arm is all scarred from that awful night seven years ago.  For those of you that aren't aware, my arm was pinned under the vehicle until first responders were able to wrench it free.  I thought for sure it would be broken but it wasn't.  It was mangled.  Looked like raw hamburger.  I remember laying in the ditch with my arm stuck under the roof of our totaled Yukon.  There were three responders around me, I believe.  I knew two of them.  One, the pastor of my childhood church where my parents still attend.  And two, a girl that was in school a few years behind me.  If I remember right, there was another man but I didn't know him.  As other responders worked to raise the vehicle enough to pull my arm out, they kept me warm and calm.  When they were finally able to lift it and pull my arm out, the girl exclaimed, "Oh, my God!"  At the time I thought this was about how bad my arm looked.  I said, "It's broken, isn't it?"  Pastor nodded a distracted yes and they got me out of there and into an ambulance.  But my arm was most definitely not broken.  Not sure how that was possible.  I've thought about this particular part of that night over and over again.  And in hindsight I've often wondered if the exclamation from the girl wasn't about my arm at all, but because she saw Fane when they lifted the Yukon enough.  I'll likely never know, but it definitely makes me think.

My arm, of course, looks much better today.  A couple years ago the girl at the drive thru mentioned my "cool" scar and wondered where I'd gotten it.  I hadn't realized scars could be cool.  If you look closely you can see the spot on my palm just above my wrist where a small shard of glass was embedded for a couple weeks.  The scars have faded immensely...but they're still there.

Much like our lesser known scars.  They've also definitely faded...but they're still there.  Seven years.  Seven years have divided our then from our now.  Fane has been gone from us for twice as long as we had him with us.  The tears don't come as often now, but they still come.  They will always come.  Sometimes just a few, a sprinkle.  Sometimes buckets in a torrential downpour.  Now we get more of the wistful smiles.  The scars from the memories of what was as well as from glimpses of what never will be.

The other night Jerry and I were talking and remembering.  We see glimpses of Fane in all of his younger siblings.  His unbridled joy in Petra, his lashes on Jaeger, his dimpled grin in Krimson...we're constantly seeing him here or there.

Only our big three were around at the time of the accident.  And they were little.  It's unlikely that any of them have memories of him.  We can only imagine who he'd be as a 10 year old today.  We can only assume how our family would be different.  Our entire family dynamic was irrevocably changed seven years ago.  That scar is forever.

Over the last ten years I've been dealt some blows.  Blows that only a precious few know about.  Blows that have left scars.  But also over the last ten years I've learned that scars aren't just reminders.  They don't solely serve as markers of the past or missing future.  Scars can take what is broken and mend it into something new.  Something stronger.  Something beautiful.  

So, yes, we are scarred.  We always will be.  "Buddy" may be a placeholder but the Fane sized hole in our family isn't a thing that can be filled.  Yet, still, we are blessed.  We will not only survive, we will thrive.  Stronger.  Scarred...but beautiful.