Scars

As was his custom, my father almost always had a dump truck load of dirt brought to the house and deposited on the drive way in the spring. “Hurray,” thought the kids, “our own Mt. Everest.” However, everyday after school, before we could properly explore, we had to fill a rather large wheelbarrow three or four times (can you imagine!), shove it to various spots in our hole-ly titled patch of terra-firma we called a backyard, and dump it. We did this, as it was explained, to make the yard a bit more level. (I took that to mean, less dangerous).

The mound of driveway dirt slowly shrank after days of dumping, but any rain hampered the dirt moving progress, putting a hiatus to spring excavations. Rain not only provided a break from the wheel barrow, it also solidified the driveway mound in ways that only a true spelunker can appreciate. Rain meant tunnels! I should clarify, rain meant a tunnel. One rat sized hole, just big enough for a really skinny 6th grade boy, who hadn’t eaten that day, to wriggle carefully through. Not too much shoulder turning and scraping the sides or the thing would cave in. Not too much sound, or thump, cave-in.

Tunnels were the only saving grace to a truck load of dirt at my house. To the adults in our neighborhood a 4 ft mound of dirt indicated a serious gardener, an avid yards-man, was near. (I believe my father had secret hopes of making the cover of Better Homes and Gardens; but really our yard’s progress was more in line with This Old House.) To the kids in the neighborhood, that same mound of earth was an invitation to the realm of Kid-dom. Kid-dom, the land where Pigpen rules and King of the Hill is a past-time. What joy we took from knocking the snot out of the person standing on the sandy peak. In Kid-dom, violence is a standard greeting. “My ass you’re king of the hill…Here’s my shoulder. Glad to meet ya!”

The stars aligned one spring and we got a particularly good load of dirt and a good soaking rain which made for an exceptionally tunnel receptive hill. My brother, Stephen, with Mike - or it may have been the Jeff across the street – and I, had dug the Kid-dom equivalent to the English Chunnel. It must have been three feet long. It was almost long enough to get your entire body in. If you were lying on your stomach, arms outstretched, you’d still not have too much leg showing. As all good dump-truck-tunnelers know, you have to have a drag man when you tunnel. The drag man doesn’t get prettied up in a dress and pumps…different “drag.” The drag man is the one who grabs you by the wrist when you are half way through the tunnel and drags you out the other side. This method of exiting - requiring less squirming - helps to ensure the tunnel remains intact for the next crawler. Stephen was the biggest of the bunch so he usually dragged.

For some reason which escapes me at the moment, this marvelous, tunnel accomplished day, we had fireworks. (A few firecrackers and bottle rockets are always found at teenage boy’s houses, and my friends were no exception.) I was two feet into the Kid-dom Chunnel. Dirt in my mouth. Dirt in my nose. Fingers clawing through the exit. My arms were completely exposed. Head down, eye’s closed, slowly wriggling. Half-way through. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! “Someone is setting off fire crackers,” I thought through the ringing in my head. Then I felt a burning on my left forearm and heard another…BOOM! That was the exact time the Chunnel collapsed on top of me. At least a hundred pounds of dirt on my head and back, a second degree fire-cracker burn on my arm, and partial loss of hearing…I easily qualified for 6th grade disability.

After my brother pulled me out, I was informed that the fire-cracker on my arm was an accident. It was really meant for my head. Rather, Stephen meant to throw it near the tunnel exit, but it slipped and he “accidentally” dropped it on me. (Yea, right.) That small burn - about the size of a dime - hurt for two weeks and created a memorably sweet scar.

I still have that scar on my arm. It, and a lot more, remind me of my brother. That scar has faded a great deal over the years. It is so faded that I have to point at the exact spot in order for my kids to see it. “Oh, I see it. That itty-bitty place right there? That’s nothing!” they say. Oh, but it isn’t “nothing.” It is a big, big, something. It is a scar. It is my scar. I earned IT and a hundred more just like it. I endured their pain, I have their memory, and I wouldn’t trade one – even if I could. Every scar, physical, emotional, and spiritual, has a story. Some are still raw and fiercely painful, while others are sweet and even funny. Scars. They tell a lot about a person and a lot about their life.

I don’t mind parading these scars of mine, letting the world know what they mean or how I got them. I’m quite sure Jesus parades his scars around too. (You do know he still has them. He showed them to Thomas.) Like I said, they tell a lot about a person and a lot about their life. The scarred hands and feet of God tell a compelling story. It is powerfully painful and those scars tell the world the extent to which one man agonized to provide us all with healing love.