Get to Know Me (not my pedigree)

I have scars. Oh, boy! Do I have scars!

Maybe the first ones I got came when my arm went through the glass window of the back door at our house when I was, oh, maybe five years old. One on my left elbow, and the other under my arm in the armpit. Stitches were required.

Another one came after my bout of chickenpox. And so many times when I fell and skinned my knees.

Perhaps the most important scars, though they are not on public display, are the scars from the cesarean sections performed to deliver my two children. Those are precious scars because they made a portal for my son and daughter to come into this world and into the waiting arms of their father and me.

These are scars that are visible, but there are others that are hidden… or hiding. There are others that are deeper and that ache… from time to time…

The first time I was scolded… it’s a small scar, and it has faded, but I know where it is.

The first time I was humiliated… it’s a larger scar, still irritating my peace of mind

The first time I was betrayed…

The first time I loved and was rejected…

The first time I broke faith…

So many firsts, but the scars can sometimes be re-inscribed through repetition, and they were.

We all have these kinds of scars. They are what we don’t talk about, unless we happen to be with a trusted friend or family member or a counselor or physician. These are scars which, if we could see them on the outside of our bodies, would form a kind of map of the battles we have fought and the griefs we have borne. But then, we’d all have to recognize that no one is pristine. No one has the perfect life, and none can claim to be invulnerable.

What would we do if we saw those scars, if we could identify the scars that we have left on those close to us and those whom we have harmed from a distance? … if the mirror showed you the map of sorrow of your own life and you could see the sorrows of others as they pass you on the street or across the table at dinner or standing in line at the store?

I propose that we stop hiding our scars. They are the evidence of our brokenness and our need for compassion and forgiveness. I am weary of the barrage of messages that paint a picture that if I just buy this or eat that or follow them I will be liberated from my scars. I am not perfect. See me as I am; and give me the gift of seeing you as you are, too.

Published by Bethany Ann Larson

I am an actor, director, and teacher. I am also a storyteller and solo performance artist. My personal story starts when I was adopted at the age of five months. The first story I can remember was the story that my mom and dad told me about how I came to be their daughter. I welcome opportunities to share my story, to facilitate the stories of others, and to use storytelling as a way to bring people together.

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