The Scars We Have and the Scars We Give

In the years of my recovery, the Lord has been so good to allow me to find my way back to motherhood again, both giving me the wherewithal to be James' mommy again and to give birth to our miracle boy John.  I am in awe at the co-mingling of agony and ecstasy within motherhood, and feel so grateful to carry the holy burden of parenting, a burden I certainly should not have ever been able to carry, by all rational accounts.

Nonetheless, a constant fear resides in the back of my mind. As hard as I have tried to force it out, I’m haunted by the scars James will carry from the hardships in my life. We all have scars from our parents, I suppose, whether inflicted intentionally or, more often, by virtue of circumstances that they could not control.  How we approach and even embrace our own scars is important. But, as parents, how we approach and embrace the scars we give to our children seems painfully important, too.

I am so proud and almost giddy when I see my little sleepy-eyed boys, who can still look like babies if I catch them at the right angle. 

I am brimming with hope for them because they are blessed to have a mother with scars and a Heavenly Father who knows how to use those scars for my boys’ ultimate healing.

I can only give them what I have, as lacking as it may be sometimes. But thankfully, the prayers of so many friends and the grace of God will undoubtedly fill that gap.  I pray that someday they will be able to embrace the scars I have unwittingly given him and the scars they give themselves because I know God will mold them into something beautiful. But for right now, I can choose to make peace with my own scars. Because maybe the best way to parent my boys is to not to hide the hurt, but to show the healing.