Scars; a work in progress

The war torn skin sewn back together to look like me. Even the surgeons said it would be a pretty but it spoils the vision of past beauty.
I won’t deny my youthful pride in curves and smooth skin. I would let shirt hems flirt with exposed belly and shorts ride high on smooth thighs. I wanted all the eyes and my bag of chips. Modesty redeemed but still a gleam in my eyes because I know what these clothes hide. Still pride.
Then sickness hit my chest. Knives ripped out the tumors but left holes where beauty used to be. At least to me. All of a sudden waves of self consciousness and shame. Maybe I’m less desirable, maybe less of a woman, maybe not enough curve left to satisfy any man’s eyes. Wrapped in pain and eyes blind with doubt I wore heavy robes of Ill fitting deferred dreams turned nightmares poisoning my soul.
Then a light in my dark sky. The One with soul changing scars reached out with pierced hands and grabbed mine. He loved all the pieces of me and showed me truth. He sees my scars as battle wounds and tales of victory. Places where Satan was beaten and a road map to a new home. I cast off ideas that were rooted in mix matched ideals of allure and glamour. Beauty redeemed and a new gleam in my eye for my joy is my greatest asset.
So maybe will know me by my laugh and not my lips, for my hands raised in praise and not the color on my nails, for the words in my journal and not the numbers that measure my bust, waist and hips. For my contribution to the body and my heart for children, for my love of people and my encouraging spirit, for my dedication to family and my reverence to our Savior.
These scars are just part of the making of me.

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