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The Blessings of a Scar

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A scar is the signature of a painful event in the life of the body. A reminder that informs us that we are not always in control of our lives. I have many scars. My hands have tiny scars, caused by bee stings, which I received when I was playing hide ‘n’ seek with my brother and sisters. The bush that I was hiding behind, and decided to stick my hands through to peer out, was the home of some very angry yellow jackets. As I pulled my hands out, I saw that they were completely covered with the attacking bees. There is the scar on my lower right side that reminds me of a morning when I was twelve. What started out as not being able to keep breakfast down, led to the surgeon’s scalpel and the removal of my appendix.

The scar on my left arm takes me back to my high school football days. I was stepped on or, in the vernacular of the football player, cleated. Of course to be cleated on the arm meant I had to be on the ground, where I spent quite a bit of my time. But of all my scars, I have a favorite — the scar on my left knee. When I was almost three years old, I was running through the house and tripped and fell on my sister Terry’s toy sewing machine. It was made out of metal and had a sharp edge on the base. The gash was severe and the blood began to flow.

My father took a sheet and began ripping it up and then wrapped my knee to stop the bleeding. What I remember most was sitting in his lap with my mummified leg and being comforted by his big hands. I will never forget his hands. Those hands are embellished in my mind as a visual reminder of my father’s love. Tragically, those hands were taken away a very short time after this event. My father died in a one-car accident, three days before Christmas (December 22, 1958), leaving a wife and three small children behind.

As often happens when a parent dies, one tragic event sends a ripple, or more like a tidal wave through the lives of family members. We didn’t have any support systems in place, and my mother was unable to care for us due to her poor physical and emotional health.

Three years after my father’s death, as a result of a brief relationship, she gave birth to my sister. Four children under the age of six to take care of were too much for my mother. Feeling threatened by child protective services, she decided it was best to give us to her sister who lived 280 miles away. My aunt was single, had two older children, and was an alcoholic. Again, we were living with someone who could not take care of herself, much less take care of four needy children. The next two years included almost all forms of child abuse imaginable. After two years of living with my aunt, as a result of her alcoholism, she died of liver failure.

“What do you do with four children who have been abandoned, living in essence by themselves?” was the question the neighbor had across the street. She decided to call a nearby church. The church secretary who received the call immediately went to check out the situation. The youngest child, now two, was the only one at home. With her big brown eyes and malnourished tiny body, she charmed the church secretary to the point of no return. Later that evening, the church secretary, along with her husband came and picked up the four of us. We were now a part of a family that included a mom and dad, two teenage daughters, one recently married daughter and a dog named Poochie.

Without the aid of any social workers, therapists, or anyone who had any understanding of what it was like to adopt older children, the next twelve years were to say the least — challenging. However, in spite of the continuation of the affects of the tidal wave, and without the aid of any adoption professionals, four orphaned children stayed together, were a part of a family that loved them, and were all introduced to the Father of Love. To this day, all four of us are faithful Christians.

My life has been one of external scars as well as scars on my heart. Adoptees, whether “older child adoptees” or adoptees at birth, have one thing among many in common — scars. Scars are the result of a wounded heart. Many scars are difficult to see because the wound was taken care of properly and the scar may be barely recognizable, However, for others, the wounds were not treated properly, and as a result a large scar and painful past are constant reminders of rejection and loss.

Having a birth father who loved me and cared for me the first three years of my life has been one of my greatest blessings. I believe that “feeling” of love has stayed with me my entire life and has helped me become a loving husband for over twenty years and a loving father to three wonderful teenagers. I also believe if it were not for an adoptive mother who earnestly loved Father God, true healing in my life may have never happened. It is no wonder that my favorite story in all of scripture is the story of a “lovesick” father — the “Parable of the Father’s Love” found in Luke 15. No matter where you are in your journey, we all have a Father that in spite of where we have been or what we have done, is searching for us, wants to put his arms around us and tell us, “You are my child, whom I love. You are beloved!” You have a Father that will never leave you or forsake you! Also, as you come to a place in your life where you have experienced the “Jesus Touch” in your life, remember Paul’s words:

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” (2 Cor. 1:3-4).

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