Like most people who have managed to make it past childhood, I have my share of scars. There’s the one on my chin from when I tripped myself jump-roping in gym class in the second grade. Unfortunately, I had the part of a graceful Sugar Plum Fairy (type casting!) in the school play the following night. The gigantic butterfly band-aid on my chin made it difficult for me to say my one and only line: “Hello, Santa!” I resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy when I attempted to open and close my mouth. I was so concerned about how I would be able to deliver my line that I accidentally said, “Hello, Daddy” instead. Hello, daddy. Good-bye, Broadway. I have another scar on my left shin from where I nearly met my Maker slipping down a steep gorge at Fall Creek Falls. I was there for church camp. I’ve never been very fast in physical endeavors (but I make up for lack of speed with endurance—I am the tortoise) so I usually gravitate to the back of the herd on hikes. That places me comfortably among children, the aged, and the infirmed. On this particular hike, a pre-camper was lingering near the edge of a sheer drop-off. I pulled him out of harm’s way and slipped part of the way down myself. I employed the babysitter’s second best advice: Do as I say not as I do. My shin was sliced open by a series of jagged rocks. It was a painful limp back to the cabin. Many of the scars I’ve collected as an adult have been through the misadventures of cooking. Years ago, I had baked two pans of coffee cake in glass pie plates. I wanted to see if they had cooked all the way through so—with hands awkwardly fitted with bulky oven mitts—I held the pan aloft above my head to check the bottom. The searing-hot pan slipped from my hands and my stupid reflexes kicked in. (Where were these quick-as-lightning reflexes when I was sliding down the side of a rocky ledge?!) I caught the pan in the crook of my arm, heard a slight sizzle, and let the pan fall to floor. It took me about two seconds to get a chunk of ice from the freezer for my arm before I joined my sister on the floor to eat the cake. (The three-second rule was in play so I had to put aside pain for the sake of coffee cake.) My most extensive scars are seen by just two people: my husband and my GYN. Those are my stretch marks. These smooth, purple strips of ripped-and-healed-over skin cover the front of my belly like I’m wearing an understated WWF belt. I can’t remember what my stomach looked like B.T. (before twins). I look at women at the beach who are called “mommy” by at least six children (and one of which is a newborn perched on mom’s slender hip) but wear a string bikini and have NO stretch marks. Are you kidding me? How is that possible? I have a friend who swears by a cream that she rubbed on her belly for all three of her pregnancies. I tried said cream but no luck. I think you either have skin that can stretch and draw back with the elasticity of a balloon or you don’t. I don’t. I’ve read books that have key characters with distinguishing scars. These scars define them as mistreated victims or resilient survivors or both. Sometimes the scar is defined by the other characters as beautiful and profound, but I’ve always thought it hard to imagine that the person with the scar feels fully glad to have it. But now, with a few years under my stretch mark belt, I’m starting to realize what a scar can represent. I may have busted my chin and flubbed my lines in the second grade play but it was my first taste of amateur theater and I was hooked. (In high school, I was more of a backstage person. You can have band-aids all over you and no one will notice.) I may have cut up my leg on that hike but I was eventually awarded a plaque that said “Most Inspirational Camper.” (It really should’ve said “Most Likely To Go To Church Camp Without Hooking Up With A Boy”) I have lost count of all of the times that I’ve burned myself in the kitchen, but I’m happy to say that I’ve become a moderately good cook in the process. I’m never going to be the stomach model for those antacid commercials that show an x-ray view of the churning acid that dissolves when you take Prilosec, but I carried my daughters to thirty-eight weeks. My skin stretched perfectly around them as they formed inside of me and I was glad to rent it out to them. (Though they won’t get their deposit back.) These scars make me who I am—the good, the bad and the ugly. I’m most convinced about the necessity of scars by the words of I Peter 2. “When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly. He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.”

I teach a Bible class for four- and five-year olds at my church every Sunday morning. It’s my favorite age to teach. They are old enough to listen and understand the Bible stories but young enough that when I “roll the gospel chariot” they don’t look at me like I’m a total idiot. If you’ve never had the privilege of sitting in a folding chair with ten precious children surrounding you in a semi-circle at your feet, you’re really missing out. As a special treat for those of you who have never experienced it, here’s how a typical morning would go: (I’ve just read the story from Mark 7 when Jesus healed the deaf and mute man. I’m prepared for some questions seeing as how Jesus “put his fingers into the man’s ears. Then he spit and touched the man’s tongue. He looked up to heaven and with a deep sigh said to him, “Be opened!”’ The story only encourages five-year olds to go off-message.) “So what was wrong with this man?” I ask, pointing to the picture in my hand. “He was deaf!” The majority of the class rings out in unison. One boy raises his hand. “One time…” (Nearly every five-year old’s story starts with “one time.”) “One time my mommy was giving my daddy a haircut and she cut his ear.” “One time,” another girl chimes in, “My mommy dropped a glass in the sink and it broke into a hundred pieces. Then…” (Uh oh. Here it comes. This particular little girl hasn’t told a regular story all year. Every one of her harrowing tales must end with an unexpected twist. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grows up to be a screenwriter for a soap opera. Her best story ever ended in her own death. She apparently drowned when her mom threw her in a swimming pool full of sharks.) She continued: “Then my mom picked up the glass and there was a doughnut on it! (pause for effect) And she ate it!” “Me and my grandma wear our pajamas when we wake up in the morning but you know what my grandpa wears?” asks a different little boy. “What?” I ask nervously, hoping I’m not about to find out something very personal about his grandfather and his chosen sleeping attire. “He wears his regular clothes.” Phew! That was a close one. Another hand goes up. “Okay, last one,” I say as I point to the outstretched hand in the back. “Do you wanna hear how a dog laughs? Brrr-ha-ha-ha. Brrr-ha-ha-ha,” he says with all the seriousness of a professor giving a college lecture. All hands have been called on and the kids are ready for paper crafts and goldfish crackers. Another fulfilling Sunday school class is coming to a close. Next week they will return with more stories and animal facts. I will try to remain in charge of this lively group, hoping they won’t notice that the kids outnumber the adults and a coup would be all too easy.

I have always loved to pretend. When I was little I would pretend that I had blue eyes and blond hair. It became so real to me that I remember being stunned one day to see a little girl with brown eyes and a brown bowl-cut staring back at me in the floor length mirror mounted on the back of my parents’ bedroom door. My sisters and I pretended every scenario we could think of. We were preachers, teachers, shopkeepers, and mothers. We “lived” in tree branches, under the front porch, and in blanket forts. We acted out scenes from TV show, movies, and books. But at some point during those tricky “tween” years pretending became childish. Instead of Barbie-themed birthday parties, I was invited to pool parties with Duran Duran on the invitation. When I had a friend over, we didn’t play make-believe in the tree house anymore. Instead we rode bikes around the neighborhood to see who was playing in their yard. I continued to use my imagination but I kept it locked away inside my head. I pretended what it would be like to have a boyfriend without actually having one. I pretended what I would do if my family died in a tragic disaster and I had to make it all alone in this cruel world. I pretended what I would say if a popular girl at school accused me of something and I had to defend myself. (Too many Sweet Valley High books. They’re like pouring gasoline on fire for an already dramatic child.) Even now, I can still create a completely fictional scenario in my head that will bring me to tears. Having kids is the best thing for a lapsed pretender. It’s like riding a bike—all of those skills come rushing back. I knew exactly how to eat and drink imaginary food when my girls got their play kitchen and we had our first tea party. I quickly realized that their level of fun increased the more I stepped up my pantomiming. (Tip: If you’re new to this, always blow on the cup of tea to indicate that it’s too hot. They love it. I also always accidentally spill my cup on my pants so that I have to wipe it up with an invisible napkin.) At church last night, I got to have a pretend picnic with a five year-old who has Down Syndrome. He has very limited speech but his imagination is amazing. When he drank invisible liquid from the miniature Tupperware cup, he made very realistic swallowing sounds. Then he picked up a plastic lemon and squeezed it over half of a plastic bun before eating it in giant Cookie Monster bites. He methodically placed plastic French fries in an empty plastic taco shell. As he angled the meal into his mouth, the French fries slipped out the back and fell onto the floor. He laughed until tears welled in his eyes. He was completely engaged in the reality of his pretending. Now that my daughters are nearing ten, I’m loathed to think that their days of playing house and school will soon be over. I love to walk in on them as they are chastising their imaginary students for being too loud during circle time. My girls call these ghosts out by name: “Polly…you can’t sit by Horace anymore.” They are completely serious. I want to freeze them here. I want their pretend tragedies to be manageable and brief. (Like me, they also love to pretend their family has all died. I blame the Boxcar Children series. I once overheard one of them say, “I wish I was an orphan!” It didn’t hurt my feelings at all.) They will eventually learn that life is full of painfully real tragedies that they can’t pretend their way out of. Life will turn them upside-down and make them yearn for days spent playing and dreaming. And then one day they will sit across a tiny table from their own children. They will blow away imaginary steam from a tiny plastic teacup and remember how good it feels to pretend again.