The scars of loss

I casually asked a parishioner the other day how he lost his hand. I knew it happened when he was a young man, so I didn’t expect him to get emotional. But as he told the story, his demeanor began to change.

“It was a corn picker,” he said quietly.  “I remember when it cut to here, and then here, and then here,” he said, making imaginary slices in his invisible hand.  ”But after that, I don’t remember anything.”  He went on to tell me that, as the corn picker sucked his body inward, it also ravaged his face.  Afterward, he was told by his nurses not to look in a mirror.  But being young and curious, he looked anyway.  Here’s where his face went ashen as he retold his story.  “That was a mistake,” he said.  “I shouldn’t have looked.”

All this happened 40 years ago.  I can see no obvious scars on his face today, and he has adapted well to life without a hand.  But it doesn’t take the loss away.  Loss is a wound that fades, but if you dare to look close, there it is.