scraped knees
One time, I fell out of a tree. I was probably seven or eight years old. It wasn’t the first time and definitely wasn’t the last. I crumbled to the ground face first. I laid there for a second, sorta shocked by the impact and then ran inside the big house by the lake, crying, covered in dirt. My knee was bleeding. But I think the sight of my own blood scared me more than the pain. It wasn’t anymore than ten minutes before I was back outside roamin around with a scooby-doo bandaid barely hanging on to the top of my lil knee cap.
This sounds odd, but I miss scraped knees. I have scars. All different shapes and sizes...marks in places where the earth once humbled me. I used to laugh when I would come home after a few months of living outside and mom’s face would change from pure excitement to slight concern at the sight of my legs. The years of cross country, track and basketball in high school already made them look bruised and rather beat up. Then add a year of various bug bites, rock encounters, clumsy hikes, pokey cactus, defending Mi Casa from raccoons (jk...sorta), kitchen/ dish room mishaps, etc...and just good ol stair steps.....my legs were lookin pretty gnarly.
I appreciate my scars. They are part of my story. I still have small shadowy marks on the insides and heels of my feet from blisters that tortured my steps for days in the Guad mountains and the first backcountry trail trip. My knees are decorated with the remains of scrapes and gashes from climbing or that one time I tumbled head first down a rocky hill on a mountain bike. Jordan laughed out of pity as I spent a solid forty-five minutes slowly pulling chunks of rock and gravel out of my leg and the backs of my forearms that afternoon. Or the lovely marks of remembrance from just tripping over a my own feet. That happens more than I’d like to admit.
I also have a weird streak on the side of my left calf from getting spiked in a 3200m race during my senior year of high school. Most runners who have experienced this understand that whether on purpose or not, it is infuriating to get spiked. I ended up placing in that race. Nothing lights a fire under your butt quite like running angry with blood dripping down your calf.
The moment captured above is the time I climbed at Enchanted Rock during Walkabout. We had just learned how to crack climb aka I had just learned that it sucks. It sucks so much until it doesn’t, kinda like skiing. You’re gonna hate it until you make it down a slope without wiping out and experience the exhilaration of your body gliding through the snow. The route that switched this for me took fifteen to twenty very long and strenuous minutes of me grunting and scraping my body against this granite wall, as Evan yelled at me from the belaying position that he wasn’t going to let me come down till I sent it. When I finally got to the top, crack climbing didn’t suck anymore. My whole being burned with relief and gratitude. I couldn’t stop smiling.
To me scraped knees, in a small way, represent that I’ve overcome something. I haven’t scraped my knees in a while...which I guess is a good thing. (Don’t worry, I’m still great at running into doors and tripping on air) But this whole season of life has been about overcoming things. I’ve learned so much about myself and about the Lord. And every single time it is because I overcame a challenge or a trial. As difficult as trying to find community in a new environment or as simple as picking up a paint brush for the first time since middle school...they have all left a mark on me...they have all taught (and are teaching) me something. It’s been pretty hard sometimes...not gonna lie. But each time, I reach that point where it doesn’t suck anymore. And I can stand up on the the other side of it…burning with relief and gratitude…stronger than I was before.
