Scars and Limps

Writing is kinda like therapy to me.

And I hate therapy. It hurts.

I went to college to become a counselor and discovered that while I loved the idea of helping people to get better, the process was hell.

When you've broken a bone and trapped it in a motion confining cast for months, its ugly when you unwrap it and try to use it again. The skin is pasty and peeling and the muscles don't want to cooperate anymore and the healed bone aches in a way you never hurt before the "incident."

Heart hurts are no different. We wrap up our pain in a cocoon of darkness. Don't let anybody in, don't venture out, don't use the part that hurts and maybe just maybe it will get better on its own. Going right on out and talking to somebody about the pain is almost as hurtful. I have to dredge it all up again and experience all the feels and then sit there and listen to somebody else tell me what to do about it or how its not my fault and its just almost unbearable.

I'd much rather hide. Cover up my bruise with a little makeup. Cover my scars with a long sleeve or a fashionable scarf. Keep walking like I'm not dragging a little. These things make me feel ashamed. Like life should be easy and I'm not tough enough to conquer it.

And then I remember a man wrestling with God until daybreak and walking away with a limp because the Lord knew the man just wouldn't give up.

Or another Man who chose a life that would lead to a Cross and some pretty gory scars. Those same scars that identified Him to the dear friends He gave His precious life for.

So today I'm gonna remind myself that scars and limps aren't signs of defeat. They aren't to be ashamed of.

Signs of a battle well fought and I'm not down for the count yet.

Breath in my lungs, ever faithful beating heart.

My scars are my story.


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