Scars

A year ago today I was traveling to Betroka for the first time.

I had been in Madagascar for a little over 2 weeks. For the first week I stayed with an amazing missionary family, the Patrelli's in the capital while I awaited the arrival of the team. Then, on the 7th, the team arrived and we started a whirlwind of activity. Getting enough money and groceries for 4 months... How do you calculate how much powdered milk you will need in that amount of time when you have never used powdered milk in your life? I still don't know... I just used the mathematical principal of "THROW AS MUCH AS YOU CAN INTO THE CART!"

We then traveled to Ranohira for language training. This part was hard for me. I missed Stacy and the kids, I didn't know what I was doing, I felt like everyone on the team knew each other and I was the outsider. I was "on the team" but I was only short term. I had no concept of what was expected of me and I was fairly certain there was no way I could do any of this. Even teaching, something I have always had a gift for, was foreign to me. How was I supposed to teach these two little girls English? What had I gotten myself into?

I quickly learned that I liked language learning, so that was a bright spot in my day. It was embarrassing to walk around fumbling through language and getting laughed at. But I LOVED it.

A few days later, the 16th I believe, we had a "day off". We went hiking in Isalo National Park. Now, those who know me know that I am not a hiker. I'm not even good at walking. It takes enough concentration to stay upright on flat ground, let alone the, you know, natural kind of ground. But off we went.

 It was beautiful.

 I mean breathtakingly beautiful.

 

But as I said earlier, I'm not exactly a hiker. I don't mind going for leisurely walks along clearly marked paths that have safety railings anytime you get somewhere potentially sketchy. 

There were no safety railings.

          Anyway.  By the time we were on our way back, I was exhausted. I was hot and sticky and struggling to keep up. "Just keep going..." I told myself, "Keep up with them Meg... Don't get too far behind!" I've always been the last one in any type of things that involves athleticism. That doesn't bother me. Making the whole group stop and wait for my slowness... THAT bothers me. So I plugged on. Slipped a few times on slippery rocks and yelled at myself (in my head) for being clumsy.

Sunk into a mud hole, laughed about it trying to be cool, all the while thinking, "I am such a moron."

And then it happened. I fell. I didn't just slip this time, I completely missed the rock I was trying to land on and fell into some more rocks and some mud. I had rolled my ankle and it felt like fire was shooting up it. There was bloodied mud all across my right ankle and knee. It was starting to trickle down my leg like lava from a volcano. My toe was all mangled and it looked like I had cut half of it off (I had been barefoot at the time because that was easier than trying to walk in shoes). Someone took my backpack for me and another person helped me up. Our team leader squirted some purified water on the cuts, trying to clear away some of the mud. There was still quite a ways to walk before we got back to camp. 

Fun Fact: I am one of the most stubborn prideful people I know.

I insisted I was fine to walk. Partially because I knew the longer I sat, the more it would ache. Better to keep moving than to think about the pain. But mostly because I was embarrassed by my clumsiness. Of course I would be the one to fall and get hurt. Of course.  We plugged on, every step a painful reminder of my stupidity. "I'm fine!" I kept insisting to anyone who asked. I tried to keep a normal pace, and a normal conversation. I would NOT show that I was in pain. We got to the place we were to stop and eat lunch, and my team helped patch me up. 

We still had a long ways to walk after lunch, at least, it seemed terribly long. Probably not more than a kilometer. I plugged on, at first trying to use my own strength. Halfway through, I realized I couldn't make it on my own power. I'm not sure when I stopped berating myself and telling myself to "suck it up", but by the time we reached the van that would take us the rest of the way out of the park I was simply praying God would help me make it. 

They were the first of the scars on my body from this trip. There are many. As I look at them now, I am not embarrassed. I don't think I am an idiot for falling. I look at them and I see my filthy pride. I see my inability to let others help me, which would come back many times throughout the year, and I suspect will come back time and again throughout my life. 

Psalm 147:3 says, "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." 

It took time, but my wounds were bound up. Let's just say I am as slow of a healer as I am a learner. God binds up our wounds, but sometimes he leaves the scars to remind us where we have been It reminds us of our mistakes, of our hurts and of the incredible mercy and grace he offers so freely. 

I am a filthy sinner who has been made new by the Creator of the Universe. His scars offer me freedom form my scars. His wounds have paid my ransom.

There is beauty in scars.