When will we as women no longer care what others think of us?  Or… gasp… say about us?!  My morning started out in a pretty ordinary way. Steel cuts oats, berries, Bible Study, snuggling with puppies. Now that I am no longer working, the morning yoga schedule at my gym has become very appealing to me. I roll up my mat, push a headband into my frizzy head of curls, grab a water bottle, and head out my door.

It is a beautiful, crisp fall day and I feel great. I attack the stairs to the yoga studio with a bounce in my step. I leave my shoes at the door and enter what I thought would be an oasis of calm. A peaceful start to my day. I place my mat upright on the floor and quickly set about borrowing a couple of the gym’s mats to cushion these aching knees.

I hear the studio door swing open behind me. As I turn around, a lady moved my yoga mat to a different spot and rolled her mat out where mine had previously resided. My face must have displayed my surprise even though my lips remained silent.  The Yoga Mat Queen’s words rang through the air:

“Most people like to be closer to the front or you can put your mat next to the gym’s mats.”

A small spark inside me prepared to ignite.

“No, I like to be in the back. I really don’t want to be that close to the mats. It makes it difficult to spread your arms out.”

Not to mention the fact that the smell of all those mats enveloping my nostrils did not appeal to me.

I quietly unroll my mat where she had placed it and add the extra cushioning. I hear murmurs from the back row. Evidently I had entered the “Estrogen Zone.” You know the spot- you make a relatively sane, reasonable comment and the Estrogen Club Members descend on you complete with stares, barbed comments, and pointed whispers. Clucking, snipping, and dare I say, obsessing, about where they always place their yoga mats. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I tried to concentrate on – hmmm- what was I supposed to focus on?!  Oh yes- my breath.

As the clock announced that the yoga class was winding down, I thought about how absurd this situation was. I had convinced myself that the Yoga Mat Queen didn’t like me, I had concluded that I also did not like her, and I did not feel any of the therapeutic benefits of yoga. I am convinced that this never would have happened in a room full of men. Of course, a man might have picked up said lady’s mat and tossed it to the other side of the room. Or he might have shrugged his shoulders, muttered an interesting adjective for said lady, and claimed a new spot for his yoga mat. But alas, even though Tamoxifen is quietly re-routing and effectively stamping out my estrogen, I still have just enough of said hormone left to feel bothered- almost sad – that the Yoga Mat Queen and I might never become friends.

I roll up my mat, grab my water bottle, and collect my shoes. I resolve in my spirit that Today is a new beginning. I pledge inside my head to no longer care what others think about me or… gasp… say about me again. My estrogen may be waning, but this little lady doesn’t give a…  Well, you know.

Once upon a time we fell down- hard- on concrete no less, and skinned our knee.  The wound bled and our knee was oh so sore. Soon after, a scab would form. Our mothers would admonish us not to pick the scab- otherwise, it would leave a scar. The scab would often sport various colors and take on a life all its own until… one day it fell off. The skin underneath the scab was pink and fresh- and looked a bit out of place on the landscape of a nine-year-old’s knee. Raw yet promising.

According to Merriam-Webster, a scab is a dry, rough protective crust that forms over a wound or cut during healing.  Scabs- we’ve all had them. But what do we do in the middle?  That ‘in-between’ time. The healing is not quite complete but the injury is not as fresh. We can turn our attention to the surrounding skin- the remaining parts of our lives. We can moisturize that scab with the soothing oils of compassion for ourselves and encouragement from our friends. We can put our mothers’ advice to work and avoid activities, people, and places that pick at our scabs.

I can’t help but think that God uses grief or a season of mourning as a ‘heart scab.’ No loss is too small or too great in God’s eyes to provide that dry, rough protective crust. Entering the empty nest season- He fashions the scab. Losing a loved one- He allows the scab to form and protects it from falling off too soon. Facing a health crisis- He bends down and touches that skinned knee. For every loss and season of letting go, He washes our knee oh so gently and wraps us in a warm, “I’m your Daddy” kind of hug.

The trick in living with a scab is remembering that sometimes even when you don’t pick at it and healing moves forward, you are left with a scar. Sometimes the scar is not visible in the light of day. Sometimes the scar is most visible in the ambushes of the night.  Anxiety tiptoes next to your bed and points out the indelible mark of what happened to you. Then it’s time to pull back the covers and take a long look at the scar. Offer God praise for the gift of the scab, the raw promise of healing, and gratitude for the scar that announces who carried you through.

Philippians 4:19

“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus.”