The other night we were laying in bed just enjoying each others company. I was resting my head on Mr. J’s shoulder and running my hand across his chest. My finger tips lingered on his scar and I slowly traced it from one end to the other.
I could feel J tensing … and I said, “I love your scar.”
The hesitation was in his voice when he asked what I was talking about… Was I joking? Why would anyone love something so ugly?
“Aw baby. It is not ugly at all. Every time I run my fingers down your scar, I am reminded of how lucky I am that you are alive and in my life.”
For thirty-eight years J has tried to hide his scar, too embarrassed to take his shirt off around others. Years of hearing the laughter and ridicule.
But, I can only smile when I trace my fingers across it… Because he is ALIVE!
Slowly, I traced my fingers up to his face, across his lips, and to his cheek. I felt the tears that silently moistened his eyes…
My heart ached… so many years of pain welled up inside that beating heart… covered by a scar, a scar that should be his badge of honor… A scar that shouts to the World, “This wonderful man is Alive.”
J took my fingers and kissed them.
I love this man and his many scars, for they make him complete.