Bruised

When I woke up Sunday morning I found small round bruises on the tops of my shins. They were small, and round and red. It seemed as if someone had just poked me really hard repeatedly until they broke the delicate tissue underneath my outer layer.  My bruises are formed as half of a semi-circle; the bottom of a smiley face.  I amusedly poked at them upon their discovery. I was enchanted by these mystery circles. I was drawn to them: intrigued.
I cannot remember the last time I had a bruise.  I remember being covered in them as a child, because I always have been incredibly uncoordinated. In every childhood photo, I can make out the dark purple splotches on the insides of my knees.  I would fall off curbs or bikes or stairs. I would bump into tables or walls and have proof to show for it. Yet despite their everlasting nature, the reason I think I remember them is because I showed them off. I was proud of my darkened circles. They made me feel strong and grown up and alive.
As I stood in the shower this morning and looked down at my darkening, broken skin, I felt sad. I no longer have that pride in my falls. I no longer reminisce over the difficult trials I have gone through to gain my bruises. Instead, I mourn over them. They remind me of hard times and difficult tears and heart ache. They remind me that growing up isn't really all that fun and that being eighteen isn't all it's cracked up to be. My bruises are that vivid image of brokenness. They show that I have failed or messed up or fallen.
I do not like to fall. I like to live life happily with no trials. I like to pretend- naively- that I am perfectly capable of growing without the hard. I like to think that bruises are for the weak; for those who can't hold themselves up. But I cannot hold myself up. I am sinful and wretched and broken. I am bruised.  I cannot control the future or the present or even right now. I am not the boss and I am not gleaming, and tan and prefect. These small semi-circle shaped bruises remind me of that.
So today I am keenly aware of my small bruises: of my faults and falters. I know that in a week or so they will have disappeared and I wont even remember them. I know that when I get bruised again-and i will- I will look back and be unable to remember the last time my skin was purple. But in this moment, on this day, I know who I am. I know that I am selfish and impatient. I know that I lie and say mean things and do not love. I know that I can be flaky and inconsiderate and broken.  I am grateful for that reminder.
Even though its purple.