Well, we did it again—but we are NOT getting old. Just a little beat up and more decorated with the zest of life than we were twenty years ago. 

At present, you would find us the walking (and limping) wounded. The giant bruise on my husband’s forehead makes quite the statement. It is the battle scar he received on our recent trip to the west shore of the Chesapeake when we hit turbulence that bounced him into the ceiling of our 1967 V-Tail Bonanza. At least he didn’t trip over a towel on his way to the bathroom. (That would be me.) So, he gets points for that. 

Passing an unforgiving mirror, the reflection reminded me of my own road rash from a recent trip to the dermatologist where a sample of loose living back in the early eighties was scraped off my face and analyzed. Of course, this was before the invention of sunscreen and I was wearing a bikini at the time, so I am giving myself points for that. 

Points aside, we both looked a fright this morning as we attempted to put the house back together after our family’s fair share of celebration during the holiday season.

With an orphaned sock in one hand and Lemon Pledge in the other, I bared down hard on the den furniture trying to remove the traces of gingerbread, popcorn butter, and juicy spills from sippy cups. The scuffs and scrapes from toy airplane wings, a ceramic bowl with a rough bottom I’ve never found the time to pad, and countless water rings on the coffee table remained unaffected—even by Lemon Pledge. This morning, we seemed to be surrounded by obvious reminders that we are still alive and kicking.

As I rummaged beneath the sink for the Old English Scratch Cover, I thought of the shiny, pristine Christmas gifts we gave our children this year. A lovely white tablecloth—free of lasagna stains, a small wooden table yet to see its first water ring, and knowing the feet of those who would receive it are still in fine working order—the unexpected gift of ballroom dance lessons. For just a moment, I bemoaned our old, dilapidated stuff. Then with all the force of an airplane ceiling, it hit me.

The stains and scars are the goal. They always were.

I remember opening our wedding gifts and laying them out for display on my parent’s dining room table. (That’s what we did in the 80s.) Everything was bright and shiny, and I spent hours imagining where it all would go.

And go it did. All over the world. The tablecloths earned their stains from countless dinners with family and friends, and the dishes got chipped from lending extra cups and plates where they were needed. Just like us, they lived their lives. Just like those “old folks” with their dated and dilapidated stuff we used to declare so antiquated.    

That is us now, and we have come to realize our scars are our badges of honor. Our willing trade for living large. For jumping in with both feet. Our scars are the bag from which we pull our best stories and relive our most memorable adventures. And most importantly, they are the grit that offers the wisdom and warnings God has given us to pass on to those whose tablecloths are still untarnished.

So, our message to you dear young people today?

Go out there and get yourself some scars! The good, healthy kind. The kind that come with trying new things and being generous with what God has given you. Stain something. If something gets broken—even if it’s your heart—ask God to glue it back together. He will. We are living proof of that.

In a throw away world, prize your tattered trophies. Put them on display to the glory of God and dare someone to call them outdated and dilapidated.

We finished our cleaning, and between the two of us, made peace with the scars around us.

But I will confess, when we ventured out later that evening—still works in progress—I praised God for makeup, and my husband wore a hat!