scars

I've taken to a new police show, mostly because it features that fellow from "My Name Is Earl" and because it's set in Memphis, a town I'd like to visit for several reasons. In tonight's episode, more than one character espouses the following aphorism: The scars of our youth never go away.
Well, OF COURSE the scars never go away! The only way to be rid of a scar is to involve a plastic surgeon and much money. That would result in removal of the scar, but hopefully not the lesson learned when the scar was obtained. Because THAT is the true measure of a scar: the very personal life lesson imparted at some point in one's own history.
That small one on my forehead, near the hairline? That was from chicken pox when I was just in my teens and my youngest brother shared the malady with me and my brothers. That lesson was don't mash facial bumps unless you KNOW what they are.
The faint line across the back of my left hand was the result of a burn obtained in the chow hall kitchen during service week in boot camp. Yeah, I should have checked the temperature of that rack near the rolling oven BEFORE I tried to push it out of the way.
The inch-long ovoid on my upper left arm? Well, that's the result of having a mole removed.. and removed... and removed. No, it didn't grow back; it just took that many swipes with a surgeon's blade to get down to skin free of abnormal cells. Wear sunscreen! It's not just for the fair-skinned.
The four little marks, midway down, on my right torso? Those are from the eviction of my gallbladder three years ago. The lesson there is know your family history. Both maternal AND paternal, because both have a hand in YOUR future medical aches and diseases. My father's sister had that same surgery, at about the same age as I did, but I didn't know because the family had lost touch with her. (Not any more!)
Scars remind us of foibles on our path to become the person we are today. Wear them with pride - they are the proof of your resiliency.