Every time I look carefully at my right hand, I see a scar. It’s on my first finger, acquired on a hot summer day when I was thirteen.
School was out, and for some reason dad was home that afternoon and mom wasn’t. He was mowing our huge yard, and I was under instructions to bring him ice water every so often.
I thought lemonade was better than ice water , so I set about making that. In those days, lemonade concentrate came in a can, and you had to remove the metal lid to go about making a pitcher of it. And right there, mid lid removal, was the source of my scar. Next was a petrified scream to my dad, who hugged me, washed my hand and took me to get stitches.
Such a little thing, it seems. But that scar is a reminder.
It isn’t unusual for me to have a better idea than the path set before me. At 13, it was just about lemonade. All grown up, it’s about much more .
It can be about being argumentative or uncooperative.
It can be about what I reveal, and what is left hidden.
It can be about adjusting what I give, and what I dare keep.
And it can be me thinking I can control what isn’t for me to control.
This is a theme for me, and I long to clear the stage.
To be a woman of my word, to be a woman of THE Word. To believe, and follow that Path.
I’m a collector of scars.