My Story is on My Skin

I have freckles that appear on my skin when I am out in the sun. This is who I am; because my mother has the same skin, so did my grandmother and I can only image her mother did as well. My story is on my skin. I am a culmination of all these women. I am the result of their years of joy and heartache and I share their story; on my skin.

I have a bumpy pale scar on my left knee and a twist of skin on my right wrist; all war wounds from a youth well played. When I am a shrivelled up old woman I will still have physical proof that I rode my bike down the gargantuan gravel hill and made it...most of the way. I will still have proof that the wind whipped through my hair and sun shone on my back. I will be able to tell a small child that it is, in fact, a bad idea to stand on the back of someone’s skis when they are headed downhill. This was a lesson I learned at Smuggler’s Notch Vermont on a high school ski trip, that my wrist now reminds me daily. I don’t recall it hurting all that much when it happened but the scar remains as my skin tells my story. 

My ring finger on my left hand has a light tan line, regardless of the time of year. We couldn’t afford an engagement ring when we got married so I used my grandmother's and wore a silver band purchased at a Highland Games in Fergus, Ontario. Only 10 years later as we renewed our vows did I get my own wedding set. It never mattered what rings were on my finger, it left the same mark. My heart has known all along that I was his regardless of how much we had and what we could afford; my skin tells that story as well. My whole being is married to him and we share a new story each and every day.

I had smooth skin all over my abdomen 11 years ago; but after that my skin; and my story would be forever changed.  Christmas Eve of 2002 I held my little baby in my arms for the first time and through bleary exhaustion and fading pain I knew I was a new creature. I was a mother. My soul knew it but my skin would tell that story for the rest of my life. My badge of honour for the hours spent labouring a child I would die for to her first breath of life.

My skin story is so much a part of me I couldn’t be without it. I wear it every day and though some days I think I am falling apart; my story keeps me together. There will be many more scars and marks my story will share with my skin before the day I will just be a story. I choose to love each and everyone because they are mine, they are me.

Refining My Brokenness

So one of my resolutions this year was to write more, or at least again. I have always healed, laughed and lived through my writing but for some reason over the last few years I have stopped baring my soul through pen and ink. It is a little like deciding to stop breathing to a writer, but I am deciding to take a deep breath again. I am deciding to write again. so I know who I am. So my kids will know who I was. So I can find out who I am becoming.

I am going to start by trying out Lisa-Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday. The plan is you write for 5 minutes on a particular topic provided by her each Friday, (no editing or re-writes...just unadulterated writing) today's prompt was BROKEN....so here goes...

BROKEN:

I grew up believing I was broken. I was broken cause I didn't have my dad. That if he was here I would experience an insta-fix. i guess that is why I wanted to have someone in my life always...never wanted to be alone. I figured that somehow a man would come into my life and fix me…’cause that is what men do isn’t it? I grew up believing that to be broken because you didn't have a dad or man was something you needed to be ashamed of and hide. You hide you're hurt. I’m not even really sure who taught me that lesson; but I knew it as surely as I knew I was broken.

Now many more moons than I would have liked have passed…and let’s be honest I’m still a little broken. I’m still a little convinced that I should be hiding it. The difference is that now I am sure that I am not the only one experiencing waves of brokenness. I am certain that we are all in our own way and in our own time breaking, repairing… breaking and repairing, refining ourselves like shining silver.

That man I dreamed of did come into my life. I am certain that the most honourable thing that my husband has done for me though is to sit beside me while I cry over my brokenness realizing I am not alone. He has watched me, encouraged me, cheered for me, covered for me and sheltered me while I fixed myself. He has never ‘fixed’ me; he has just loved me through my brokenness… despite my brokenness… sometimes because of my brokenness.

I don’t always love the realization that I am, in fact, broken at times. But I love the strength that comes from the refiner’s fire as the brokenness, my imperfections are burned off.