Scarred For Life

I never understood why I had to be the one with the burned legs and feet. Growing up, my one and two degree scars seemed to be an eye sore for all who interacted with me. I will never forget a cousin telling me I was ugly because of my burns. Of course, they may not have really meant anything by it, but it cut like a knife to hear. This sentiment was echoed by adults through the request to bring socks to cover my feet when I visited. These types of consistencies gave me a lasting infamy over what I looked like.

The only place I felt true acceptance was at home. My mother would look at me and share how beautiful I was regardless of the way my feet looked. When my feet would go up a size, the skin graph over my legs and feet would stretch, bringing incredible aches. My mother would serve as my nurse, rubbing my legs and feet until the throbbing settled. Determined for me to feel comfortable in my skin, I would be forced to wear shorts, bathing suits, and jelly shoes like the other kids. I am convinced that if she had known about the challenges I faced when I left the house, she would have cursed the folks out! She wanted me to feel I was like everyone else so badly. But it is near impossible for a child to accept their normalcy when they have lived their entire life being different.

Occasionally, I would try to recall the events of the day that led to me being burnt across a quarter of my body. I would close my eyes firmly, cogitating to break free the memories I have been powerless to unseal. But no matter how determined, my retention would faithfully betray me. So, I reside with the story told to me by family members from since I can remember.

I was 2 years old at the time of the incident. My older brother, who was five at the time, turned the water on to help draw me a bath. Unbeknownst to anyone in the home, the hot water heater was defective, causing scalding temperatures to pour through the spout. My brother placed me into the water and when I tried to leap out, I was placed back into it. My skin began to peel away from my legs and feet; my stepfather noticed the travesty, and him and my mother rushed me to the hospital. The trauma of the event caused me to go into shock; I had to learn to walk and talk again.

Despite my memory being shut down from reliving the trauma I experienced as a toddler, my older brother never forgot. He carried remorse like a favorite satchel; refusing to allow himself off the hook, even though I never blamed him. The familiar regret connected us much stronger than blood ever could. When the weight of his truth got too much to carry, he’d profusely apologize and promise a skin graph one day. I held on to that promise too, believing at some point, I would have pretty feet and would no longer be compelled to hide in stockings, pants, long skirts and boots. My feet would be free to indulge in fancy strapped heels, open toe shoes, and sandals, styles I had avoided up to that point. My brother’s intentions were pure, but deep down, I knew my deformity was not going anywhere.

I chose to focus on how lucky everyone said I was. Doctors told my mother I would need another skin graph by my teenage years. They expected that the newly positioned skin would stop stretching. But this was never the case. As I continued to grow, the skin continued to conform to its new location. So no matter how I hated looking at myself in the mirror, I found comfort in the fact that at least I could walk. I continued to avoid the clothes my mother worked to build my comfort in as a child, ultimately hiding a piece of myself from the world. I refused to believe that acceptance could come any other way.

My thought life was challenged when I met Dave Roever. He was a guest speaker at the church I attended in my late twenties. When I saw him, I could not believe his strength, confidence, and comfort with the audience. As he brought his message, I could feel my body leaning in to hear every word. Burned on one half of his face, he spoke about the loneliness and shame from the disfigurement that is exposed to the world. It was disturbing to imagine the scrutiny he must experience almost daily, while choosing to get up and live with purpose. I was relieved that my choice had not been taken away; at any time, I could cover my scars and pretend they weren’t there. Dave did not have that option.

When he shared his story about how he got burned; a grenade exploding in his hand, and the devastation he experienced, it was gut-wrenching. Although the horrific event had made it impossible to cover up the scars, it did not diminish Dave’s joy, humor, and pure compassion for humankind. I was encouraged by his ability to capture such a positive outlook on what, by all accounts, would be viewed as a tremendous tragedy. Then, he shared what a fellow minister told him that propelled the change we were experiencing. He was recounting the aftermath from the explosion, as he had done many times before, to a host on an Inspirational Broadcasting Network. And her food for thought was, the reason Dave was allowed to go through this horrible event in his life, was because he could be trusted with the testimony. That was a bold affirmation to share, regarding someone else’s tragedy. The response was so Pleasantville, with no apparent consideration for loss, torment, or unanswered prayers. There is no way I could have fixed my mouth to say that to anybody. That being said, I gotta be honest, as ignorant as the comment may have sounded, it truly resonated within me.

Is that how we are chosen to endure events in our lives - the trust level? Our body is an extension of the universe, and just like with our money, we must show good stewardship over it. So, regardless of the tragedy that befalls us, we must honor our body, our mind, and our will power. We are also challenged to be faithful of a few things, to be ruler over many. In every situation, there is an opportunity to lead by example. This includes those moments of loss, tragedy, disaster, and disappointment. When I take that into account, what the Broadcasting host shared falls like mana from heaven, and is worth digesting.

The following days, I meditated on that statement and how it could apply to my life. I wanted to experience the same level of freedom regarding my scars, that Dave experienced with his. I wanted to be seen just as trustworthy. Conceding to this thought opened the door to me finding comfort in my own skin. I declared to stop allowing my scars to define me, and checked my own outlook towards people and their interest in my disfigurement. I used to get so angry when I would be speaking and notice someone staring at my feet. Instantly, I would be ready to tell them off. I worked harder at not taking it personal when people stared, and instead viewed it as an opportunity to build my confidence and share my story.

Dave’s message helped me realize the prison I had made for myself, fixating on my differences, instead of the things that made me just like anyone else. I realized how blessed I was to not have needed additional surgeries throughout the years, how blessed I was to be able to walk, run and skip if I wanted to. I may not be able to wear all the shoes I like, but I have feet! To be able to greet people with grace when it is apparent they may not even see you, for focus on your physicality, takes a level of self-assurance and meekness I had known nothing about. It demands the understanding that your outer appearance can never be more critical than your heart condition.

As far as my testimony, it is showcased with every mile I gain on the pavement. This year, (at a snail's pace) I completed my first half marathon. Sure, I was crying by the 10th mile, but I finished the dang thing! Gaining the achievement of a finished race is awesome. But finishing when I should not be able to walk is my true reward. Knowing it is only by grace I am able to put one foot in front of the other, literally! What is most interesting is all the years I have recited the story shared about my injury, and there was a significant part of the story I never knew until a couple years ago. Recounting the story with my mom as we have many times before, she shared a detail that only solidifies the fortune that befalls me.

While my brother and I were in the bathroom, my mother was in bed, sleeping off a long shift from work. When she heard the commotion and yells for her to help, she jumped up and grabbed the first thing in her view, a white sheet. After the damage had been assessed and I was settled in the hospital, the doctor shared the outcome with my family. He made a point to mention how critical the white sheet was in saving my legs. If my mother would have selected any other color to cover my body with, my legs would have been infected with the dye, and I would have needed an amputation. This is absolutely nothing anyone in that moment was considering. But an Angel was sent to govern a scene that was devastatingly chaotic to the naked eye. Even in the middle of uncertainty and fear, there is a higher force that has the last say.

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