*Warning* This story may not be for the squeamish 

When I was about 4 years old, I had this toy, I refer to it as the rolling lion toy. Basically it was one of those toys that is supposed to help infants scoot around and then when they’re toddlers they can push it because it has a handle on the back. As a four year old I mainly used it like a shopping cart, but on one particular evening I was running around our house pushing the lion like it was a race car. Our house at the time was really a giant square with hardwood floors, so it was perfect for running laps at maximum speed. At some point my four year brain decided we had had enough of running in circles and would change it up, so as we rounded the corner from the kitchen to the living room I decided that instead of taking the next turn, I would instead go straight through the doorway into my bedroom. As I sped through the doorway, and onto a new race surface (carpet) I stayed the course and careened into the far wall. Upon impact I flipped over the handle bar landing seated on the lion and snapped my head forward, biting my tongue.

I don’t know if this was the same for everyone, but when I was little, the worst pain I could experience was biting my tongue. It was an awful sharp pain, and it was really only happening because I was eating or talking too fast and my tongue just got in the way of my teeth.

I remember immediately bursting into tears and running from the room to find what comfort I could from my mother. As I rushed into the kitchen, I got my mother’s attention by tugging on her shirt and my stifled closed mouth whimpers. I clearly remember my mother looking at me while I pointed frantically at my mouth, she cracked a smile and in a kind, yet mocking tone said to me, “Oh did little Kelly bite her tongue?” I nodded vigorously and then stuck my tongue out going “aaahhhh.” In an instant my mom’s face went from a smiling joke to abject horror! She quickly rushed me to the bathroom and told me to lean over the sink, keep my mouth shut, and not swallow. As I waited for her to return, curiosity got the best of me and opened my mouth while looking in the mirror. Immediately blood poured into the sink, I couldn’t really see much, but pain was telling me that the blood was coming from my tongue. As I was continuing to examine my mouth in the mirror my mom came back in with a glass of warm saltwater and told me to sit on the toilet and put my tongue in the cup. I did as I was told  and was then immediately rushed to the car, while my mother yelled at my brother Mark to be good and help dad finish dinner.

Upon arrival at the E.R. we hurried inside, being careful not to spill my now bloody glass of salt water – which, can I just say, tasted awful – The nurse at the front desk  immediately ushered us into a room and a doctor was not far behind. –Please note this was the fastest service I have received at the the ER to date – After a lot of cotton balls and gauze the doctor finally stemmed the bleeding enough to take a look and see what the damage was. The good news, my tongue was still intact and connected, the bad news I had bit all the way through. In reality there wasn’t any bad news, in fact I didn’t even need stitches, the doctor decided that he would bind my tongue and if, in a couple of days it wasn’t healing, then he would stitch it up. –I am eternally grateful not to have had stitches and that the tongue is the fastest healing organ in the body-  I was charged with no talking, and only eating of soft foods, which in my mind translated to pancakes! This was the best news I’d heard all day…I love pancakes.

My tongue eventually healed and yielded a fairly significant scar that covered most of my tongue when I was younger, over time the scar has gotten much smaller, which makes sense considering how your tongue grows from the time one is four years old to adulthood. Though smaller, the scar remains as a reminder of one of my many childhood ER visits and for all intents and purposes an entertaining story.

When I was a summer camp counselor, we used to use scar stories as a small group discussion ice breaker, and they yielded some of the most interesting stories, not to mention the kids became comfortable with the idea of small group sharing. We just asked the kids to tell the group an interesting story about something that happened to them that gave them a scar or even a broken bone (it is a scar in a way). It may seem bizarre that we were asking kids to tell us about a time when they hurt themselves, but there’s a reason we started things off that way. We all have scars, physical and emotional, it takes time, courage and strength to accept the scar and move past it. Scars can remind us of a time when we were vulnerable, and got hurt. And yet moving past those pains and scars are what make us stronger individuals. We were made to heal, a scar is just a reminder that we did heal. The kids loved telling their harrowing stories to a captive audience who “oohed” and “aahhhed” in all the right places, what they may not have realized at the time was that these kids were taking ownership in their life experiences, their pain, and most importantly, that they came back stronger.

I think scars can be a beautiful thing and I wouldn’t trade mine for the world. I hope you all can see the beauty and strength in your own scars.

Happy Wednesday!