Our scars tell the story that we survived
Just like yours, each of my scars tells a story. The one I notice most often is on the index finger of my left hand, a line running diagonally across the knuckle, with a lighter oddly-shaped scar behind it. The line came from the first pocket knife I bought with my own money. I bought it at Boy Scout camp along with a beginner woodcarving kit. As I worked on the kit, my blade hit a knot in the wood and I didn’t even feel it cut my finger to the bone. But it healed quickly, and I never did finish that little wooden owl. Several years later I face-planted in gravel and asphalt when I wrecked my bicycle going downhill. One of the many scars I bear from that wreck is the odd one on my finger near that slash mark. Those scars are faded now, and I don’t notice them all the time. But when I do see them they remind me of what happened and that although I experienced a bit of pain and recovery, I survived. I have other scars from a couple of life-threatening incidents, but those are t