Tales From the Scar Side
Because good stories leave a mark...or a concussion.
At least, that’s what I tell myself every time my wife Karen rolls her eyes when I start telling one.
“Why do all your best stories involve potential head injuries?” she asks.
“Because I survived, that’s why.”
Here are just a few of the highlights (and lowlights) from my personal highlight reel:
Scar #1: The Porch Incident (Because Farm Life Builds Character)
We lived in a farmhouse that was almost a hundred years old. It was a great place to grow up—lots of land to stretch our legs and more than enough places to get into trouble.
One of our favorite hiding spots during hide-and-seek was shimmying up a metal pipe and hiding on the patio roof. (Yeah, safety first. OSHA would’ve had a field day.)
The front porch wasn’t solid concrete like you might expect—it was made of big wooden planks, the kind that bowed and flexed over time...and occasionally exposed the tops of nails, unbeknownst to us small adventurers.
During a big family get-together one summer, we were deep in a heated game of hide-and-seek. I had just made a daring escape from one of my usual hiding spots and was sprinting toward the porch.
The end of the porch was just the right height for me to launch myself up by placing my hands on it and hopping up. I’d done it a hundred times.
Except this time, when I placed my hands and jumped…my left hand didn’t come with me.
It was stuck. Like, glued-to-the-porch stuck.
It didn’t even hurt at first—it was just confusing. (Why can’t I move my hand? Am I becoming one with the farmhouse?)
Naturally, instead of calmly investigating, I did what any kid would do: yanked my hand upward with all my strength.
And then it hurt. Really bad.
When I turned my hand over, there it was—a crescent-shaped cut, bleeding nicely, courtesy of a rusty nail that had decided we were bonded now.
Got bandaged up. Finished the game. (Country strong, baby.)
Scar #2: The Aluminum Bat Incident (Or, Why the 80s Were Built Different)
Back in elementary school, they let you bring aluminum bats to recess. Let that sink in. Baseballs, too. No helmets—because why make it safe?
(The 80s, man. In my best Bandit-from-Bluey voice: “Yeah, it was a different time.”)
One day, I had a brilliant idea: see if I could hit a basketball over the fence surrounding the tennis court where we played kickball. (Spoiler alert: several flaws in that plan.)
First swing—success. I sent that basketball flying like Babe Ruth calling his shot. Naturally, feeling invincible, I lined up for another.
Second swing? Not so much. The bat ricocheted off the ball at just the wrong angle, bounced back, and cracked me square at the hairline.
You know how in cartoons Wile E. Coyote sees stars and little birds circling his head after a good smack? Yeah. I saw those birds. In vivid, high-definition color. They were yellow.
Luckily (or unluckily) my Mama worked at the school. I got escorted to her with a goose egg on my head, and my escort told the story before I got the chance. My version was cooler. Just saying.
Still have a little scar hidden at my hairline. Badge of honor.
Scar #3: The Trampoline Incident (Physics Wins Again)
Regrettably, this one happened in my twenties. You’d think wisdom would’ve kicked in by then. It didn’t.
I was at a friend’s house, wrestling on his backyard trampoline like a couple of grown men who clearly had nothing better to do.
(Thankfully, this was pre-smartphone era. Otherwise, I’d be a viral meme right now.)
My middle brother, Sean, and I decided it would be a great idea for him to give me a Rock Bottom—a wrestling move where you pick someone up and drop them flat on their back.
Simple plan: I jump. He lifts. I land. Drama. Applause.
Except…we both jumped. At the same time. Sean (who was bigger than his big brother) came down on top of me while the trampoline slingshot us upward.
I hit the mat heels-first, then snapped backward so hard my knees slammed into my forehead. He folded me up like a book on the last day of school.
I told this story to my daughter while I was writing it.
“Oh, you scorpioned?” Chloe asked.
“No, the other way,” I said, motioning like closing a book.
“What were you thinking? Uncle Sean’s bigger than you.” She had the look that should’ve gotten her grounded.
The birds were back. More of them this time. Maybe a few squirrels.
When I peeled myself off the trampoline, my friends’ “Whoa, that was awesome!” turned into wide-eyed concern. (Always a great sign.)
I stumbled inside to a mirror and was greeted by a giant red dent in the middle of my forehead. “That can’t be good,” I thought.
ER visit confirmed: concussion, but I somehow missed shattering my nasal cavity by inches. Any lower, and I’d have needed reconstructive surgery.
I did get to see an X-ray of my skull, which was cool. I went home with pain meds and another life lesson in my growing collection of forehead dents and dumb decisions.
Final Thoughts
Karen hates when I tell these stories.
“Why would you brag about surviving terrible ideas?” she asks.
Because they’re hilarious in hindsight, honey. HI-LAR-I-OUS.
Scars are just tattoos with better stories. They’re proof you made it through. Proof that whatever hit you didn’t take you out.
Even in Scripture, scars mattered. Thomas needed to see Jesus’ scars to believe. Paul carried the marks of his faith. Maybe the reason we remember our own is so we never forget Who brought us through or saved us from our own decisions.
So yeah, wear a helmet…but also remember: your scars aren’t just reminders of where you’ve been. They might be someone else’s reason to believe they can make it, too.