When you are a kid you are proud of your scars. You show
off your scabs like badges of honor and accomplishment.  You've done something that hurt you and
eventually made you more interesting, stronger or better.

You jumped a ramp, landed wrong and busted your lip, knee
or elbow. Or maybe all three?  Awesome!
If you have lived your whole life without getting a scar, you were one lame ass
kid for sure. Your parents or people in your life didn't push you hard enough.
You never succumbed to peer pressure. You never accepted a dare or ever got
into a fight.  Traditionally, as you get
older, your mental scars seem to take over the storyline and your physical
scars are often forgotten.

Scars can be pretty awesome. They teach you things and
act as reminders of the past.  They are
like road maps of your adolescence and growth. Tattoos are nothing like scars
and should never be compared to them. Tattoos are decisions you made to alter
your once perfect skin.  Scars are the unpredictable
result of decisions or circumstances and represent something you earned. You
earn things in your life through accomplishments or abilities. You pay for a
tattoo.

My daughter is fascinated by my scars and always asks for
me to retell the stories of how I got them. She runs her fingers across the
lines or bumps and tries to imagine what happened to cause them. Let's start at
the top and work our way down on the scarring of my body.

Top of my head, towards the back:

I wrote about this incident in Pull The Trigger. It's the
chapter called "Get Up". While helping a family friend build an
electronic gate, we were moving materials from one location to the other via a
flatbed trailer.  A trailer we forget to
securely latch to the truck. At about 35mph, I, along with my dad and cousin,
were forces to jump from the moving and unhitched trailer. I landed on my feet
and then immediately on my head.  That's
the only scar I have that came with stitches. Due to its location, it's the one
nobody, besides the lady that cuts my hair, can see.  It’s also one of the reasons I hope to never
to bald.  I'm not exactly tall and
balding would make it pretty visible to the world. I'm not ashamed of it; I'd
just rather not be bald.

Below my lower lip, but above my chin:

You can blame my dad and brother Michael for this
one.  Mostly Michael. A few hours before
attending the annual hayride in Henly Texas, the three of us were wrestling in
the living room. My brother Michael fell on me and that caused my two front
teeth to go through the skin below my lower lip. Had this happened later in
life, perhaps I could have just put a piercing there and used it as an example
as to how "emo" or "alternative" I was willing to be, but
since I was 12 and got along with my parents, it resulted in just being a
scar.  The worst part of the whole thing
was that night; it was pretty much a lock that I was going to make out with a
neighbor girl. The bloody gauze and swelling prevented that from happening. I
had to settle for a night of hand holding and funny looks.  Weeks later we broke up, so I never got to go
to first base with her. To this day, I have yet to make out with anyone during
a hayride. Guess that one stays on the bucket list?

Right forearm:

My sister Kim is probably one of the meanest sisters to
ever walk this earth.  She was the oldest
and because of that, she was always the smartest.  She's a girl and their brains work
differently than most boys. They are willing to go to the next level of
ruthless behavior. Tween and teenage boys, at least when we were growing up,
just weren't programmed to operate on that level of sinister. Kim used to play
this game called "cat toss"' where she would throw a cat on you while
you were relaxing or sleeping on the couch. To this day, I have a 3 inch scar
(the longest and most visible scar on my body) because I made the mistake of
falling asleep on the couch. I have had this scar longer than any other. Kim is
still meanest and toughest member of the Murphy family, but scar in all; I love
the hell out of her.

Right elbow:

Located inches away from the above forearm scar.  Another cat related scar.  People wonder why I prefer dogs?  My wife Christal and I packed up everything
of value and loaded it into my white Ford ranger. The state of South Carolina,
particularly Charleston, was forced to evacuate due to Hurricane Floyd and we
chose to drive to Alabama to visit a friend of mine.  Might as well make something positive out of
this traumatic experience right? As we were parked on the interstate, around
3am, our cat Smitty had enough of being in the car carrier and lashed out
towards my arm and cut me across the elbow. The devastating hurricane is coming
and I'm stuck in deadlock traffic dripping blood from my elbow.  Thank God for fast food napkins.

Right hand, pinky finger:

Cat scars come in threes? 
My wife Christal and I were moving from Massachusetts to California and
it was day three of the marathon drive. We learned our lesson from the above
trip, so we let the cat roam the cabin this time. I was in the passenger seat
and somewhere near Elko Nevada (total dump by the way) it started to rain.
Smitty decided she hated the windshield wipers and ran 90mph from the
floorboard to over my shoulder. Somewhere during that trip, her back legs
sliced open my pinky finger and I began to bleed like a stuck pig. Nothing like
starting a new job, where everyone wants to shake your hand, with your whole
finger covered in bandages.

Left hand.  Ring
finger:

I don't like to use public bathrooms.  Taking a leak is ok; it's the other thing I
try hard to avoid.  Not phobic about it,
I just avoid it if I can.  Yet, when
nature calls, you gotta go. I was sitting in a bathroom stall in Worcester, Ma
and as I reached for the toilet paper to finish up my business, I cut my ring
finger on the edge of the metal box that houses the paper.  In hindsight, the velocity in which I went to
tear the paper probably wasn't the best idea. 
It cut me deep and across the inside of my entire ring finger going
right to left.  Wiping your ass, while
dripping enough blood to create a CSI crime scene is never ideal.  All the time, trying to keep it off your
khaki pants.   This story also helps to
remind me of when I got my last tetanus shot.

Right knee. 
Perfect size 9 1/2 shoe:

In my junior year in high school a kid, from an opposing
team, slid into my leg.  I flipped end
over end and began to bleed all down my leg and into my sock. To this day, you
can still see the perfect pattern that the metal cleats left in the side of my
leg around my knee. That's why left handed people shouldn't play second
base.  Especially when you have a 3rd
baseman that couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. If you understand how that
works, you could probably recreate the scene in your head. 

Scars are great reminders. Like smells and songs, they
are great memory triggers. They can also remind you why you shouldn't be doing
certain things and can often act as visual warnings to others considering doing
that same stupid act.  As you can see,
none of my scars are all that scandalous and because of that, they come with no
shame or regret.

Mental scars are different. Those often do come with
shame and deeper consequences than just a few blemished areas on your
body.  They are also easier to hide and
keep from the world. Sadly, with mental scars, you're not always aware of where
they came from or how they have altered you. They don't teach you or tell the
same kind of story physical scars can potentially share.  Allow your physical scars to teach others and
pass along great stories and lessons. Be aware of the emotional and mental
ones, and don't allow yourself to negatively affect those you influence. Like
physical scars, just because you have one, doesn't mean others have to be
altered or affected as well. Pass along the knowledge, not the burden.