THESE SCARS – Part 1
They Still Speak
The Silent Language of Living Wounded
Wherever you are today, your limitations, your walls, your scars are before God’s eyes.
September 12th, 2022
FLATTEN YOUR FACE
She would give herself away if she didn’t need the money so badly to pay the bills. No one would take her anyway, she surmised sadly, as she trudged slowly to the street corner. It was hot and sticky and what little she wore clung to her like saranwrap. She felt the sweat drip down her sides, and from the back of her knees, more sweat slid down her calves and pooled in her $3 Goodwill five-inch pumps, making it hard to walk without sloshing. The hole inside could swallow her, it was so enormous and deep. It unnerved her and she almost crept into the shadows at the back of her low-income housing complex to disappear back inside the safety of her one-room, but the thought of the baby crying again all night stopped her dead. She knew he was hungry, his eyes seeming bigger this morning and his once chubby little rosy cheeks now hollow and pale.
She shouldn’t have rocked the boat that got them kicked out. Life hadn’t been great with her old man, but it was at least better than this, if she stayed in her lane. She had three solids and things for the baby, not to mention formula, and she didn’t have to ask for favors. He made her schedule, she brought in the money, and he took care of everything else. Now, she was still selling her soul but barely making it since he’d stripped her of her reputation. Only the desperate are willing to pay for what they believe is infectious goods. Only the hard-up will look twice and linger. The cry caught in her throat as she thought about the vicious, humiliating words she was hearing on the streets about herself. If it wasn’t for the kid, she’d crawl inside that manhole right there and pray death would be quick and kind. Bravely, proudly, she raised her chin, ignoring its quiver. A car slowly crept by, and even though she couldn’t see the beady eyes peering at her through the darkened windows, she felt them all over her just the same. It sickened her but she crossed her fingers inconspicuously; just one trick could feed her and the baby tonight.
Life hadn’t always been like this. Daughter of a Baptist minister, she’d lived in a fishbowl, every stroke she made commented on, every glide, every paddle, reported to Daddy, a blemish on his reputation, a stain on the church. The more his congregation lied and tattled, the more she rebelled, and finally she grew sick of it. The day past her fifteenth birthday, the girl secretly decided if she was being accused of unmentionable things, she might as well be worthy of it. Boy, she’d no idea what real life was like, but she had too much pride to run home with her innocence and shame between her legs. So boldly and proudly, she made it…for a while, but eventually, luck ran out. By the time fear drove her home, the door was no longer open nor the light on, and for the first time in years, she cried. She spread brilliant makeup across her face and pulled on a skimpy skirt another girl she’d met on the streets had lent her and sauntered to the corner to work it like she’d been watching the real women do. She lectured herself, ‘How bad can this be? You got this, girl. Flatten your face and get your shine on.’
She had no idea, no earthly idea! That’s what these women put themselves through night after night, my goodness! Sadly, sickly, she tugged herself into a doorway, and retched from the emptiness of it. But she couldn’t ignore the large bills she held fisted in her fingers and the echo of words she’d never heard before running like excited children in her mind. ‘You’re so beautiful. You’re so pretty. Come here, beautiful. I just want to spend time with you.’ So, life began. And it wasn’t long before the lessons of life cauterized her sensitivities until there were none left anymore, like Novocain, everything numbed and then deadened.
She now no longer recognized herself. It had been years since she had. She took all the blame—although if she were honest, for a while she wasn’t sure really who’s fault it truly was. She felt let down, bitter and angry at so many adults in her life. But, she told herself often, at the end of the day, she’d made the choices she had, out of rebellion and defiance, hurt and abandonment; the tenacity kept her setting one foot in front of the last. The scars smothering her spirit were far-reaching tentacles, squeezing out hope, deliverance, recovery, relief. Even a salvage title, she’d given up on.
The car pulled slowly by again and stopped nearby. She lowered her head. What if it was an undercover? She chanced a peek and noted the hand signal. Could still be a cop, but she’d never know unless she went for it, right? Her tummy screamed angrily at her, and she pictured her baby’s huge empty eyes boring into her soul, trusting her to fill him. She traipsed closer, leaning into the passenger window once she reached the side of the car…
TO BE CONTINUED (Wednesday, September 14th)
Luke 7:37-38, ‘In the neighborhood there was an immoral woman of the streets, known to all to be a prostitute. When she heard that Jesus was at Simeon’s house, she took an exquisite flask made from alabaster, filled it with the most expensive perfume, went right into the home of the Jewish religious leader, and in front of all the guests, she knelt at the feet of Jesus. Broken and weeping, she covered His feet with the tears that fell from her face. She kept crying and drying His feet with her long hair. Over and over, she kissed Jesus’ feet. Then, as an act of worship, she opened her flask and anointed His feet with her costly perfume.’ (TPT)
Isaiah 49:16, ‘”Can’t you see? I have carved your name on the palms of My hands! Your walls are always my concern.”’
