My Beautiful Scar

      When I was growing up in Brasil, there was one thing I always wanted that nearly every other Brasilian MK had: a tuberculosis shot scar. For years, I played soccer alongside these kids, swam in the river with them, and cooked sausage with them on our camping trips. Whenever I  brushed up against a sweaty body and saw the sun shining on that round indentation, or when I caught sight of a bared upper arm at swim time, or when the firelight lit us up with its flickering glow, whenever any of that happened I wished that I could look down and see a mirror image of the other person's scar. It was more than just a scar. It was a badge of honor in my mind. To be able to see someone else's scar, and then to look down and see an identical one on your body meant you fit somehow. You were one of the clan.
       The reason I don't have one of those scars is besides the point. I still grew up there. The scents and sounds of that place are in my soul, and I do not believe they will ever leave. It's a lot like what used to happen when we built forts in the jungle. We were out there for hours at a time, hacking away at the matu, building fires, eating sour cane, and digging outhouses. We grew so accustomed to the smell of woodsmoke that we barely noticed it. Every time I smell woodsmoke it takes me back to that time when I was good at blowing the embers of a fire back into a flame, when my feet were tough, and my mouth watering for the taste of sour cane. Even now, a smell like that has so many memories connected with it.
        When I graduated from my school in Brasil, I was marked for life, scarred in a very unique way. I remember saying, "It's like my best friend died, and nobody but me knows about it." I mourned a loss I could not, and still cannot, put into words. My heart is scarred, and most of the world can not see it.
        I am not alone, though. Those of us who have these scars find each other one way or another. We are a part of a clan, and we learn to see what no one else sees and to hear what no one else hears. Here in this group of scarred people, I find that I somehow fit. I share particulars about where I come from because I know that they will also share with me. If I say, "We used to bleach all our vegetables in this big blue bucket," another marked person, like an MK from Africa will laugh and say, "Us too. We used to wash our eggs too." Then an MK from Turkey will start in, "Lettuce always tastes weird after the bleach soaking don't you think?" An unscarred person, someone who has never lived in another country would probably yawn, or try to analyze the situation. "What do you think that has done to you as a person? Are you paranoid about clean vegetables now?" they might ask. Unscarred people always try to analyze it because they cannot understand it. They look for what the implications might be, whereas those of us who are scarred simply enjoy the sharing of beautiful memories.
        The thing about scars, though, is that they still hurt. It happens a lot when I really dwell on the beauty of my life in Brasil. I start longing for the companionship I had there, for the feeling of home. It always makes me want to go build a fire, or climb a tree, or kick a soccer ball around with people. I've learned to recognize it in others. It can happen anywhere, while we are star gazing, drinking chai, or listening to music. Sometimes it's only a momentary pause. "What? Oh, nothing, I was just remembering this one time back home." Other times they want to be alone, "I'm just tired. And thinking about home, you know." Yes, I do know. Believe me I do. Other times, we go for a walk and we talk and we remember.
       I asked a lot of my friends last year, "Does this ever get easier?" Their response was no, it doesn't really. You do learn how to deal with it, though. I used to think that God would take the pain away. He is my Healer after all, my great Comforter. Surely this longing for home, this wishing for the scar on my heart to go away, would someday completely heal. Surely someday I would not feel torn anymore. Surely someday the tears would stop coming.
      I have to come to see, though, that this scar is a gift. As a follower of Christ, my real home is not here on Earth. My real home, my forever home, is in Heaven. This hurt that I have inside, this scar that I share with so many others, is really a way of reminding me that God has set me apart for His kingdom. It is a badge of honor that I wear proudly. I may be scarred, but it is a beautiful scar.