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The other day I was washing my hands and I noticed one of the several scars I have on my hands.  It made me smile because even though at the time the scar was made it wasn’t very amusing, it brought back a memory of a time way back in high school.

Thinking about that scar made me think of all the other scars I have worn over the years, and not all of them physical.  Every one of them has a story which, when enough time has passed since the wound, is a memory that will make me smile to a certain extent.  You see, even a bad memory can make me smile because no matter how bad things were there were always people around me that cared about me.  I’ve been blessed that way in life, and I hope most of you have been as well.

Scars aren’t marks of pain, but small reminders life paints on us to help us remember who we are and who we were.  They are the visible signs that we have lived life rather than standing on the sidelines.  The consequence of jumping into the flow of life with both feet is that, every once in a while, that risk you took won’t work out quite the way you wanted.  The important thing in those instances isn’t that we failed, but that we tried.  We lived.

I wear the scars of my life with pride.  They are the marks of a life that is full of stories and memories that I can treasure.  The hurts of life are temporary, but the emotions, no matter how bittersweet they can be, are the permanent building blocks of who we are.  So, wear the scars you earn proudly.

There’s a short poem I found years ago that sums this up, I have never been able to find the author behind this, so whoever you are my apologies for not crediting you.  But know I share your sentiment.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave
with the intention of arriving safely
in an attractive and well preserved body,
But rather to skid in sideways,
chocolate in one hand,
wine in the other,
body thoroughly used up,
totally worn out and screaming
“WOO HOO what a ride!”


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