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.” 
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.
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