I’m part of the Harry Potter generation–I grew up with Harry, Ron and Hermione–so when I think of scars, I think of this quote from Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.”
As it happens, I also have a scar on my left knee that is a perfect
map of the London Underground–providing that the London Underground is a single, straight tunnel. I got it from IT Band surgery I had at the end of my last season of bball (not knowing it would be my last season of course).
I also have scars on the front of both of my knees and my hip bones from years of court burns. I have a scar on my right leg from slipping off my bike as a kid. I have faint scars on my upper arms from girls nails scratching me during games. Now I have four teeny scars on my abdomen from gallbladder surgery. All together it’s a pretty decent collection I’ve got going.
I love each and every one of my scars. Each one tells a story of pain. Each one is a daily reminder that everything passes eventually–that wounds heal, tears dry, and the sun never fails to chase away the night. Each one is proof that life is worth living, despite the pain. Each one is like a little, shining kiss from life–proof of what you’ve passed through and overcome.
That’s why I’d have to agree with Dumbledore–scars are useful, even if they are not, like mine and Dumbledore’s, a perfect map of the London Underground.
Of course we all have scars that are not visible–hidden holes inside us from something missing. They’re a little harder to love. They hurt longer, heal messier. But maybe that’s why we should love them all the more, because they’re evidence of something worth missing.