A friend of mine split the roof of his mouth with a flashlight. Another cut her eyebrow on the edge of a table. My sister peirced her lip when she fell against a wardrobe. I don't have scars to show for my 2 biggest injuries; ironically, it's a scar from falling off my bicycle that I still have. You never know what's going to leave a scar, and it's not always what you think. My dad broke his arm before he could talk; an uncle of mine somehow dipped his entire forearm in boiling oil; my toenail was partially removed in a game of hide-and-seek. Years later, there's no bodily evidence for any of these events. Maybe it's fair to say that time does heal all wounds. God decides what bad decisions we get to recover from scot free, and sometimes it's the injuries that we acquire through no fault of our own that can't be brushed off. As we wait and see, our own bodies are unpredictable to us. We pick at scabs and bruises, willing them to vanish in time for the next family gathering or school assembly. But by the time the verdict is reached, we've come to accept them; we've made peace with them, we've found that the stories of how we got them are conversation starters, and we've come to think of them the way we think of the height we're embarassed by, the hair color that feels dull to us: Things we wish were different, things we can't hide away, but things we have to love if we want to love ourselves.