Life Inside Out: Part 1

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Brian Kight

On my right hand, in the webbing between my ring and middle finger, is a quarter-inch scar from eighth grade when my friend Justin accidentally stabbed me with a small pocket knife that my dad immediately threw into the trash.

Just above my chin on my lower lip is a scar, now covered by my beard, from my senior year of high school football. I was tackled in the final minute against our rival, knocking off my helmet and exposing my bare face to another oncoming tackler who sent my lower teeth through my lip in an inch-and-a-half gash. Rules dictated I had to sit out one play. Unfortunately, my replacement missed his block, our quarterback got sacked for 10 yards, and we missed the game-winning field goal on the final play by one devastating yard.

My right hip bears a dime-size scar that could be mistaken for a burn mark from a cigar but is actually the result of being shot by a retired Navy SEAL with a Glock 9mm marking round in a training exercise. He told me later that he was kind to me by shooting me in the hip instead of the chest, stomach, or head because he held me in his sights for at least five seconds before deciding to shoot me in a less painful part of my body.

I have other scars from other stories. Some are more visible, some less. Even if you were to see my scars, you probably wouldn't know the associated experiences and definitely wouldn't know the feelings. My scars are external reminders of injuries from the past, but my mind holds every memory, detail, and emotion from those events. The scars come with me as I age. So do the emotions.

So do our scars on the inside. The painful, traumatic, and damaging events of our lives leave scars from past wounds. But like our bodies, it's not the scars themselves that are significant, but the experiences, memories, and emotions attached to them.

I could show you the scars on my left leg from my best friend Andrew's track spikes that sent me to the emergency room for a dozen stitches. But I can't make you feel that moment like I did or remember it as I do.

I could tell you about the pain of growing up through divorce, of watching my siblings go through similar, if not more painful, versions of my experience. But, I can't make you feel what that was like, how those scars shape me now as a husband and dad, or how my perspective has a filter you may be unable to understand fully.

Every scar represents a painful moment, whether minor or intense, and each has a story. My scars, like yours, carry meaning. We all have scars. Only some of them are on the outside. 

Answer the call. Do the work.

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