Blemishes

Have you looked at your hands lately?  Really looked at them?

If your hands are like mine, they are blemished.

My left hand has no hair on it.  It was burned off on my latest camping trip to Oklahoma's Wichita Mountains.

My left hand has six scars.  Two resulted from unsafe whittling.  I got one in a pencil fight with a girl in third grade.

Two scars are particularly hard for me to look at because I was bitten by my favorite dog, Molly, the day that she died.  Molly was a treasured companion who lived with us for fifteen years.  The day she died she was very old, partially deaf, and mostly blind.  She was asleep under my truck and I backed over her.  That's right, I hit my own dog.  When I heard her cry out, I jumped out of the truck and cradled her in my arms.  In terrible pain, she bit me on the left hand.  The veterinarian couldn't save her.

As I look at my left hand I don't see blemishes.  I see life.

My blemishes make me think of great times exploring nature with my students, of my father teaching me how to shape a piece of wood, of childish flirting with a friend, and of my sweet companion Molly.

I don't have blemishes on my hand.