Until He Turned Around

I'm happy to report that this morning I got my stitches taken out and am now sporting a lovely new splint wrapped in royal blue bandaging. To all of you who assured me that having the stitches removed wouldn't hurt, I have one comment ... you all lie like dogs. Actually, it wasn't the stitches coming out that was so painful, it was the cutting of said stitches prior to their removal that hurt like crazy. The subsequent application of skin glue and steri-strip thingy wasn't a lot of fun either ... I can't believe I'm saying this, but I was grateful when the gal put the new splint on and wrapped it because that meant she wasn't going to touch my by then throbbing finger anymore. So ... three more weeks in the splint (but no sling ... hooray!) and then another couple of weeks in a compression wrap to control swelling and I'll be all done. All done ... I remember when those two words carried with them an entirely different meaning for me, friends ... an entirely different meaning indeed.

Yesterday, my finger was itching like crazy and pulsed with pain all day long ... definitely one of the worst days since my surgery last week. Ollie and I had only walked a couple of times over the last week because I didn't feel very well and I discovered it's sort of hard to walk my often rambunctious wiener dog with one arm tucked securely inside of a sling. But last night I decided that perhaps a walk would be a good distraction from my aching finger, so after dinner my little dog and I hit the trail. It was one of those picture perfect Kansas evenings ... wind blowing through the trees, sun sinking in the western sky, a coolness in the air that made the night feel more like fall than spring. I guess I didn't realize how very long it's been since I've walked on the trail ... Ollie and I have been walking the solitary route around the school for way longer than I wanted to admit. The solitary route that means we rarely pass other people ... the solitary route that means I don't have to interact with other people. But my solitary sidewalk is closed for repairs, so I was forced to walk on the trail ... yep, go ahead and read those words again, because they are loaded with meaning ... my solitary sidewalk is closed for repairs, so I was forced to walk on the trail.

Our walk was slow and meandering ... the kind of walk someone with an aching finger walks ... the kind of walk a person who doesn't want to bump or jostle an aching finger walks ... a slow and meandering kind of walk. By the time we made the turn to head home, my lower arm was itching like crazy so I stopped and placed Ollie's leash between my knees so I could reach inside the sling and scratch my itchy forearm. I heard a man's voice say, "Are you okay? Do you need some help?" and I looked up to see a gentleman who looked to be in his mid 50s ... a gentleman I didn't remember ever seeing on the trail before. I assured him I was fine ... just itchy ... and thanked him for his offer to help as I pulled Ollie's leash back into my hand and began walking again. I didn't think anything about it as the man fell in beside me as I walked ... it's not unusual for people to join me and Ollie and chat as we walk. But it didn't take long for me to realize there was something different about the man ... not scary different ... more like sad different or lonely different or ... well ... just different. Little did I know ... little did I know.

Our conversation began with the gentleman asking what had happened to my finger and me telling him I'd had surgery to remove a bone spur and cyst. He peppered me with questions about Ollie, what kind of work I do, if I have kids and grandkids ... and he nodded, smiled and laughed out loud when I talked about my little C.J. and having grandbaby number two scheduled to arrive in late summer. I asked him the same questions and listened attentively as he told me about his wife, children, job and dogs. But it was when he began to tell me about something that happened to him earlier this year that tears filled my eyes ... he had a brain tumor removed in February ... a brain tumor the size of a softball. "The tumor was benign," he whispered, tears filling his eyes as well. "The tumor was benign ... thank God the tumor was benign." We walked and talked for almost an hour, and it was dark when I finally rounded the corner of my street and pushed the button to open my garage door. But it was the last few minutes of our conversation ... it was the last few minutes that left a huge mark on my heart.

"Terrie, I am sure that you are often judged by others and quite probably judged harshly, especially by people of faith. I understand what that feels like ... I completely understand. People judge by us by the way we look on the outside." And then he turned around ... he turned around and revealed the massive scarring on the side of his face and head as he said quietly, "We're alike, Terrie ... people see my scars and are afraid of me. People are afraid of me because they don't know the truth ... they don't know the real me, the me behind the face. Hold your head high, sister ... God loves us all."

You see, friends, here's the thing ... until he turned around, I thought we were very different. Until he turned around, I thought we were so different. It was when he turned around that I realized we are so very much the same. 

Until he turned around ... think about it.