The other day I just happened to look down at my arm and notice a couple scars there. I ran my fingers over them and smiled. They make me happy. They are all that remain of a whole row of scars down my forearm. I got the scars as a little girl. We were eating dinner outside and my dad kept throwing bits of food to my cat. This was a new and unusual treat for her. She decided she wanted more and jumped up to get some of my food - claws extended. She reached, just as I reached... and the rest, as they say, is history. I remember the pain. So many deep scratches. I remember how they bled. I remember how much it hurt for my mom to clean them up. I remember the long row of bandages.
For many years I had very noticeable scars, white and bright, almost parallel, all down the length of my arm. I thought they were ugly. Luckily, they were on the inside of my arm, so I figured most people didn't notice them. Then they began to fade and I didn't think of them as often. I wasn't so worried about them being noticed. In fact, they became a kind of badge of honor and I liked to show them off to people sometimes. I had great battle wounds worthy of song and story. With the years, the fading continued. When I'd finally think of my scars, or go to show them off, I'd notice one or two were missing. I felt a little robbed. My war story wasn't as good if I didn't have the gory scars to show off.
Now I'm down to just two. Two little, faint scars. As I looked down at them the other day, I smiled. I love those little scars now. I don't do the war story thing much any more. It doesn't seem near as important in adulthood. But I've found I cherish those little scars in new ways. They represent a part of my life, a story, an experience, that helped make me - ME. As I looked down at my little scars I thought about the perfect body I've been promised in the resurrection and I felt strangely sad. I found myself hoping that we will be able to keep some of our scars. Isn't it strange that something that represents such pain can become something you love? Maybe the same will be true of our emotional scars. After this life, after all of the perfection of the Savior's atonement has been applied, maybe I'll look at my emotional scaring in a similar way. There will come a time when all the healing is done, the pain is gone and the scars have faded almost completely. I think at that point I'd like to keep what remains, as reminder of my life, my growth. To pull them out, look at them and smile fondly.
This is well said. I've often thought that when the Savior returned, with a resurrected, perfected body, his apostles noted that he still had the prints of the nails in his hands and feet and a place in his side where a spear had pierced him. These marks weren't imperfections; the marks were the signs of what he'd gone through to achieve perfection.
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