Beautiful Scars

 

 

It was Valentine’s Day 2009 and I was waitressing at this southern restaurant in NYC owned by Justin Timberlake. We were having a singles ball and guess what?!! I was single… and also 22. YES. This was gonna be my night. Anyways, we had a uniform which consisted of jeans, boots, and a tank top with the logo. We could wear a plaid shirt over the logoed top if we wanted. I chose my cowboy boots and a pair of leggings that were not jeans because I like to break rules. There were a few celebrities in the place and as I was walking through the crowd shaking my rump, all of the sudden, my body did a dance move I have never done which would be considered a ‘banana peel’ and my feet slipped out from under me. My body came off the ground about four feet and then crashed down hard on the floor. Onto a pile of broken glass. Ouch. Thank God I didn’t hurt myself. Whew.
 

I quickly got up and looked around to see if anyone had noticed my fall. Nope. Just the girl I was training… I got up and dusted the dirt off my shoulders and bum. “Wait. This feels odd. Why do I feel like I have a**less chaps on?” I thought to myself as I glanced at my hands. They were wet but the liquid was not clear. It was RED just like… BLOOD?!!!!!!  I am bleeding!!! From my butt. This is not good. The poor gal’s face who I was training had a look of disgust and worry. I quickly ran down the stairs and just sort of stood in one spot in the basement just holding my cheeks together. Another server ran down the stairs to see if I was okay and calmly stated, in her exact words, “Yeah, you are going to need stitches.”

 

STITCHES? On my butt? On Valentine’s Day? Nooooooo, this can’t be happening. I know this is a lot of information but, for the record, the wounds were like on both sides of my crack. Yes. My butt crack. I know you can’t believe I would share this story for the whole world to read but they have already seen my butt so why not talk about it? My sense of shame walked right out that door with my perfect 22 year old scar-less bum.

Here was my problem. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head and the wound was out of my line of vision.  I couldn’t see it but it was definitely there and it was bleeding. A LOT. I never thought someone could bleed that much and not die. Well, folks, a little blood isn’t going to kill you and apparently a lot won’t either. I went to the bathroom to try and see it but right as I was about to get a good look, the co-owner of the restaurant knocks on the door and asks if I am okay. My response? “Yeah, totally fine. Just a little cut.”  I open up the door and ask him if he wants to see it. He says no but I show him anyways and then he proceeds to tell me he is taking me to the hospital. I am like okay fine, if you say so… it must be pretty bad if you are going to leave Justin Timberlake and Leo to go to the hospital with me.

We walk up the stairs. I am holding my hands on my butt like I pooped on myself and I don’t want anyone to see. People are staring. Whatever. Worry about your own hands.  We go outside and he starts to flag a cab. “WAIT. What are you doing? I can’t sit down. What if my butt just decides to crack all the way open and I have a giant butt crack for a butt instead????!!!!!” These weren’t my exact words but absolutely my thoughts. Also, the cab driver wouldn’t be very happy if we left what looked like a murder scene behind when we jumped out at the hospital two blocks away… so what did we do??? We walked, VERY slowly, to make sure it didn’t split more. I was holding my butt the whole way. Every couple that we passed, I wanted to punch in the face. So in love. Walking hand in hand. And my hands were being used to firmly hold my derriere together. No hand holding. No I love you’s. No kissing. No red hearts. Just red blood. We would pass people and then they immediately would do a double take followed with a horrified look. Like come on. Have you never seen a girl hold her butt together because she fell on glass? It’s every girls Valentine’s Day dream come true.

 

 

We got to the ER and the lady at the front desk was a little confused until I turned around and then she goes, “OHHHHHHH…..” Ohhhh? Yeah that’s right. Oh. This girls crack is cracked! This is whack! Better get her in a room ASAP! (Sorry nothing like a little triage rap). I was escorted to a room immediately and then waited. And waited. It seemed like forever but really was like five minutes. I went to the bathroom. I faced my rump towards the mirror and moved my hands as I glanced over my shoulder. OMGGGGGGGG. It was bad. My perfect 22 year old butt now had two giant 2.5 inch cuts on both cheeks. This would be my life. I text my mom and sister. Their response? “Yeah right. Send a photo to prove it.”

 

Ummm. NO. Why not? Because I don’t have someone to help me take a selfie of my bum….because I don’t have a valentine… because I can’t take a picture because I am too busy holding it together to keep it from turning into a giant grand canyon!!!!! You have got to be kidding me. On to more pressing matters as I looked at it again in the mirror. WOW. It didn’t really even hurt. Like at all. But it sure was bleeding and it was big and VERY, VERY open. Okay. Better go back to the room.

The doctor followed me in. He says “what seems to be the problem?” HMMMMMMMMMMM???? Let me lay down. Wait. Face down. Ohhhhhh. He says “You are going to need sutures. When was the last time you got a tetanus shot?” First of all, DUH, yeah I am going to need sutures. Second of all, what the heck is tetanus? I text my mom. “When was the last time I got a tetanus shot?” She calls me back right away. My little sister is in the background saying “You can’t be serious.” No, I am making it up. Like a Valentine’s Day fools joke. OR this is really my life. Oh yeah. This is the cup the Lord has given me and it is running over. Rather bleeding over. My mom replies that it has been a long time since I got a tetanus shot. Well like how long? She doesn’t know. So the doctor says he will have to give me one along with a numbing shot. He will be right back with a nurse to put me back together. At this point, I am like whatever keeps me from having to hold my white humpty dumpty behind together. Just put it back together. After the doctor consultation, graciously, the owner of the restaurant decided to let me experience this humiliation on my own. How kind of him?! Can I get an amen?!!

 

Ok. Next….I pull my pants down to my ankles and belly flop on to the examination table. “Well Rachel, this is rock bottom for Valentine’s day so it can never get worse.” Whoever made up that saying about looking at the bright side has never been laying down on an examination table face down about to get their buns sewed together. He comes back in a few minutes with a two syringes. Okay this might burn a little. “You guys always say that”, I thought to myself……whththjguehsfjhfheiujhrwfeuhfujerueh!!!!!!!! BURN???!!!!  This feels like you injected a tiny demon into my butt to eat my soul one cheek at a time. Are you kidding me? OWWWWWWWWWWW. I screamed. I cursed. I yelled at cupid. “It’s all your fault!!!” as I winced in pain. (As I recall this story, I am sure that the owner thought I was screaming at him. No wonder he was apologizing so profusely when we left.) Apparently, the burning demon that was injected into me was novacane. I didn’t feel anything at all after that but those few seconds were like slowly setting your butt on fire. Or lowering just your backside into a volcano and letting lava eat it away. It hurt. Next up was the tetanus shot followed by the stitches.

 

“You will feel just a little bit of pressure here as I put everything back together.”  I’ll take pressure. I just want this day to be over. “Alright all done!”. Awesome. So glad you are so enthusiastic about sewing my butt together. “How many stitches?” I asked. 52. Just kidding only ten. Four on one side and six on the other. The doctor comes in to examine and then gives me papers. No medicine? “Nope and don’t drink alcohol either”… “Oh. I wasn’t planning on drowning my sorrows away in a bottle of vodka.” Except that I was. Dang it. Valentine’s Day was officially over. It was past midnight. No valentine. No medicine. No alcohol. I had one other option. Go home. So that’s the short version of Valentine’s Day 2009. Sweet, sweet memories.

 

The healing process was like, oh so fun. Sarcastic.  I don’t know if you recall but when you have a nasty cut, it starts to itch when it is healing. OMG. No really. OMG. Why would God do that? Like it’s getting better but DON’T TOUCH IT!  It’s a little uncomfortable to heal. When we are healing, it is so tempting to scratch what’s going on or get temporary relief but we need to feel the uncomfortable. Temporary relief is just that… temporary. It actually makes the healing process longer and can even infect a wound and start the healing process all over. No way Jose.

I had a plane ride to Tennessee a few days later and the stitches were still there and let me tell you. The MOST uncomfortable ride ever. In the history of evers. Sitting is a little hard when you have ten stitches on your shaker. “It would feel so good to scratch my butt. Let me just shift to one side. NO!!!! DON”T TOUCH IT. But it would feel so good. NO Rachel, it wouldn’t feel so good. It would mess up all the healing and you might have to get stitches again. And that SHOT. Heck no. I am good. Don’t need to scratch my butt. I’ll just shift uncomfortably for two hours and make the passenger to my right think I have really bad gas.”

 

The best part about stitches is when stitches comes out. It’s a relief I can’t explain unless you have had them. When stitches are ready to come out, it is because the skin has fused together and there is no longer a need for the thread holding it together. Skin to skin. Or in our spiritual lives, hurts fused to God. Give it to God. He will make it beautiful. I have two pretty ugly scars on my bum and have always wondered why God let me go through that particular experience on Valentine’s Day but as I type this, I am seeing before my very eyes how he turns our scars into something truly beautiful. He really does give beauty for ashes.

“By HIS stripes, we are healed.”

A scar is a result from a HEALED wound. They are addictions that have been overcame. They are lifted prayers and answered prayers. They are breakups that God has mended. They are families that have been reconciled. They are things that were meant to destroy that propelled people into their destinies. They are restored marriages. They are abused people made whole. They are lost people who are found again. They are unloved people who recognize that they are loved and who are able to love in return. They are lies that are overturned by truth. Every single scar has a story. Each one represents a fight and battle that we WON. A battle that God won. Our scars are not ugly. No. Not at all. They are a sign of the power of God’s healing love. Scar tissue is stronger than normal tissue. They are a sign of strength.  Beautiful strength. Beautiful scar. “I might have been hurt but I didn’t stay hurt and I let God heal me. I didn’t try to do things on my own or try to scratch my way out of the pain but I let God do it HIS way.” Whew. Bring on the scars.