I still laugh when I think of my friend running down the road. It was so funny.
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The
Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter
10/ Proof of Life.
Part
1 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
----------------------------
I’ve had a couple surgeries in my
life and there are scars, which will fade, but will always be there. I have this scar on my thumb, too. When I was
two, I cut it open on a pipe cutter. I was “helping” my dad--and a tiny scar on
my lip, believe it or not, it got cut because it got shut in the window.
Internal
scars don’t have visible marks though—the story doesn’t have a visible mark.
Scars like rejection and self-doubt, years that are difficult, some words
people say to us leave a mark on your heart. Fear is another one.
One
day, I was dropping a friend off after high school. Her family’s car was out of
commission so she asked for a ride. I said no problem—I liked helping friends
out, it was fun to give them rides home because we had extra time to connect. I
had an early birthday and got my license right away.
I
may have gotten my license, not because I was a great driver, it was an awful
test, but because I accidentally placed my hand on the tester’s shoulder. I
missed the back of the seat when I had to back up straight for ten yards
assessment.
But
I had my license and a car and she didn’t that day. Her family always had nice
new things, like cars and clothes. We had nice things but not always new
things. The cars worked and were clean, but always older.
That
day I was driving “The Chev,” as we dubbed it. It was a giant silver four-door
Chevrolet Malibu. The back seat was as large as an apartment couch, everything
was squishy and the shocks were completely gone. Any tiny bump caused the car
to bounce like crazy. My friends loved it. Some would encourage me to drive the
“bumpy way,” a particularly bumpy short street; if you went fast enough people
would hit their heads on the ceiling of the car. Not saying that happened.
The
Chev would randomly choke off and stop if you were driving slow enough, which
could be an issue at stop lights or in residential neighborhoods. That day,
when I drove my friend home from school, it did just that—started choking off,
my friend started panicking, “I can just walk the rest of the way,” she said. I
assured her it was no issue.
I
pulled over slightly; we were near her house, in a residential neighborhood,
put it in park and gave it some gas. On this particular day, it decided to
backfire so loudly that the car jerked and black smoke came out of the tail
pipe.
BOOM!
My
dear friend thought we’d been shot or that the car was about to explode. I’m
not sure what she thought she was accomplishing, I’ve never see anyone move so
fast…
“OH
MY GOD!” She screamed.
The
passenger door flew open and then next thing I knew she was running down the
middle of the street as fast as she could. I had no idea what to do; I could
barely function because I was laughing so hard at the ridiculous series of
events.
“Come
back! Where are you going?! It’s okay—it just backfired!”
I
could barely get the words out between laughter and tears… And this memory of
curly hair bouncing as she ran down the road is burned into my mind.
She’d
never heard a backfire before. I’m sure that left an emotional scar.
There
was an unaccredited meme in my news-feed that said “scars prove you’ve really
lived.” I read a quotation not too long ago by a fairly unsavory character who
said a version of this: we shouldn’t live like carefully and die safely but
skid into it…shouting “what a ride!” He
was referencing rather carnal ideas, the overarching idea of taking risks and
doing big things is appealing to me.
It
isn’t an even ratio. It isn’t that the more risks you take the more scars you
make. Some risks create scars; some seasons create a lot of scars.
Life
was exhausting for me this year; it will leave a few scars. A part-time job I absolutely
loved ended on January 1 and things unfolded over the year in ways that mounted
on painful conversations and news. We found out my father has cancer and
treatments didn’t work well enough. I had ongoing pain from having my
Gallbladder removed and a surgery to correct that. I received news we would
have rolling furloughs from my full-time job and my
boss was fired (who I loved.) A few days later I was laid off permanently due
to lack of work. Then Dad started more aggressive treatments…and a few other
things…
The
story of the Velveteen Rabbit is really a great way to sum it all up; it has
truthful lessons for us. Such as the power of love
through our lives, the gritty reality of life, and the treasures of
self-sacrifice; even notes on life after death.
But the truth is that worn patches and
scars are proof of a lived life.
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A
catechism prayer I find helpful and touching.
Lord, enlighten what’s
dark in me, strengthen what’s weak in me, mend what’s broken in me, bind what’s
bruised in me, heal what’s sick in me. And lastly, revive whatever peace and
love has died in me. Amen.
And maybe
add: Lord, help me wear my badges of a life well-lived, in a way that honors
you and allows others to praise you for your work through me.
