My Butterfly

My momma's tummy began to grow when I was four years old. When they told me that there would soon be a little brother or sister to play with, I created an imaginary little sister who was with me wherever I went. When my parents found out the little one was a boy, they were afraid to tell me for fear that my little heart would be broken. But when they gently broke the news to me, my imaginary sister cheerfully became an imaginary brother and all was well. When my little brother was born there was much rejoicing by all. I loved him, held him, fed him his bottle, and was a very happy big sister. Many came to see him, and this part of my story focuses on a day when my dad's secretary came to see my baby brother and brought along her dog.

"Can I stay on the porch and play with him?" I asked about the seemingly lonely dog, and the adults gave me permission as they headed in to the living room to sit and coo over my chubby little brother. Our family's dog, tied away from the house in readiness for our doggy visitor, was barking unhappily over the situation. I pet the new dog--a big German Shepherd--and in my childish mind it seemed that this visitor needed good Southern hospitality: an offer of some food.

And so I poured him a bowl of our dog's food and squatted down to become acquainted. He didn't much like the interference with his meal.

He growled and lunged at my face. I must have cried out because my next memory is my dad, the secretary, and my mom holding my little brother standing at the door out to the porch frozen in shock. And this is the real horror of the situation. Can you imagine being a momma and seeing your little four year old covered with blood with her cheek hanging open? I remember no physical pain from the dog bite, but I do remember the look of horror on my momma's face, and that is enough pain for one memory!

After that must have come a flurry of movement. My mom took my little brother to the her parents and then rushed to the hospital. The secretary held a wet wash cloth over my cheek as my dad rushed me to the hospital. On the way there my dad ran a red light. When I pointed out that he had, he said through gritted teeth, "Olivia, you can do that in an emergency." 

When we arrived at the hospital, I was put in a room to clean up the blood. To me it seemed that everyone else was much messier, and I can remember the incredulous smiles from my family when I forcefully ordered, "Clean up my family! They are messier than I am!"

It wasn't long before I was being wheeled in to a tiled operating room. A masked doctor offered to let me choose a small stuffed animal from a box full of different animals. I took my time, deliberating over whether to choose: the bear, the cat, the owl... They finally reminded me with slight impatience that we needed to begin the surgery and so I settled on the little owl. 

They did good work in the cold, tiled room, and after 60-something stitches, I was ready for recovery.

The eight days that followed are a blur of gifts, the hospital toy room, and visitors. It really was a marvelous time for a little girl of four. 

The doctors did an excellent job of stitching up my face. There were several parts of skin missing, which they were able to manufacture and as you can see from the picture above, the scar was not a predominant feature of my face. When I was in third grade I had plastic surgery to remove the larger pieces of scar tissue.

When I was a babysitting teen, one of my little charges (an inquisitive three year old) asked me one day, "Where did you get that butterfly?" After puzzling for a while, I finally figured out that she was talking about my scar. To her the lines on my face resembled a butterfly. What a beautiful picture of what my scar became to me. I was proud of being different. My parents must of have done an excellent job of teaching me about real beauty. I was never scared of dogs, and I knew that my scar was a gift, not a curse, from a loving Lord.

Now my scar has faded quite a bit, and I get a little frustrated when I mention it and people look at me puzzled and say, "What scar?" To me, this large mark on my face is the artwork of my creative God; a mark that symbolizes his love and care for me.