I went on exchanges once with another sister missionary. She was older than me on the mish, cooler, wiser, funnier, taller, etc. That day, I biked next to her at every chance to soak in her feng shui. At one point I was complaining to her about one of the many ailments that befalls sister missionaries. Huge biker thighs, weight gain, acne, acne scars, awkward tan lines, mary jane tan lines, split ends, weight gain... personally, I think it's a divine tactic to eliminate any romantic distractions between the elders and sisters.
She immediately stopped me in my tracks.
"YOU EARNED THOSE TAN LINES!
YOU EARNED THOSE MASSIVE THIGHS! (so you're saying they are massive)
YOU EARNED THOSE SCARS!"
She all but slapped me straight across the face.
Duhhhh, what?
Earn, huh? A different connotation associated with that word. "earn". Achieve. A consequence, for better or for worse, that is awarded after labor and services are performed. A much more positive take than what I was going on about.
Ever after that day, I decided to stop myself from internally or externally complaining about my mission scars. Instead, be proud of them. I had moments where I struggled, but my attitude was completely changed overall. I stopped grimacing at my acne-scarred chin in the mirror, wondering if a boy could ever love me. I felt strong as I raced through the streets; my biker thighs pedaling to the medal. I felt hardcore as I unbuckled my helmet and a long sweaty frizzy mane fell out. I worked hard and had the scars to show for it.
And yet, there were other scars that affected me during those sacred 18 months. One day when caught in a typhoon, my scriptures got soaked in the rains. I remember hiding in a bathroom stall, silently weeping to prevent my companion from discovering my tears. It felt as though my precious scriptures that taught me so much; that changed me...were ruined. To this day, they are still wrinkly with some sticky pages. At the time, I was devastated. Now I couldn't be more grateful for the tangible mark that Taiwan left on them. To forever remind me of my time there.
Over the past year, I've embarked on a different kind of mission with a different kind of companion, and have thus earned different kinds of scars.
Scars from pregnancy in particular. Almost 9 months later, I still have a linea nigra, or faint brown line that goes down the middle of my stomach. The skin around my belly button looks...tired. It's wrinkled and soft and used. I remember once complaining to Spencer:
M: "My tummy is so fat! It's so fat, just feel."
(pause)
M: "I know you feel it!"
S: "I love it. It's soft and fun."
When Rose was first born, Spencer touched my stomach and said, "It feels like memory foam. I feel like my hand print will still be there when I pull away."
Sure, my tummy will never be the same. Those wrinkles and dimples and stretch marks aren't going anywhere. But they are an evidence of my motherhood. My dear, precious Rose. The very best friend I've ever had. She is my soul mate in every way and I'm not sure how I survived 25 years of life without her. Scars are a different kind of beautiful, and I'll always have these with me.
