recycled thoughts

An old post came back to mind today. I wrote it about two years ago. It is interesting to read what was written in the past. Some things change, some things seem to endure. This one, for me, has endured.

wounds

I've been thinking today about wounds - the ones that heal and the ones that don't.

It was a long, long time ago, but I can still remember sitting on my grandpa's lap looking at his hands. They were worn and calloused. He was a sharecropper's son. I noticed that one of them had a long, thin scar, a perfect diagonal running right across his palm. I asked him how he got it. He told me it happened when he was about thirteen. His sisters were fighting in the kitchen and one of them got out a knife. Grandpa stepped in and tried to take the knife away. When he grabbed at it and got the blade end. His scar was earned for keeping the peace.

There is another story about my Grandpa. My Dad told it to me on the way back from my Grandpa's funeral. When Grandpa was seventeen or so, he was out drinking and playing cards with a group of buddies. He and another guy, one of his best friends, got into an argument that turned into a full-blown fight. Somebody pulled a knife. Grandpa nearly killed his friend that night.

To this day, I have never known a person more gentle and humble than my grandfather. Maybe that humility was borne out of the grief and shame that followed that horrible night. I can't see how a life could not be affected by it. Ironic that a man so remarkable for his quiet gentleness could be capable of inflicting such pain. I think it reveals something of the nature of man and life here on Earth - we wound and we are wounded.

My mind thinks back to another wound "...wounded for our transgressions," it says,"...bruised for our iniquities." With those precious wounds, peace was purchased.

I am acquainted with many words but redemption is among the sweetest. I'm inclined to think that if I asked him, Grandpa would agree.