As I sit and stare at the blank computer screen, my index finger gently rubs the tip of my left thumb.  It’s sensitive but doesn’t really hurt anymore.  The small cut is beginning to heal and hasn’t broken open and bled since this morning.

    As I think about the cut, I’m reminded of all the great events of the coyote hunt from Saturday. I hadn’t planned on doing anything outdoors because of family commitments but received an early morning call to join a couple of friends for a quick hunt. All the stars must have aligned just right because we were able to find one in an open field and I finally connected.

    The cut came a few hours later as I sat on my front porch trying to carefully skin it out. A small group of neighbors had gathered and all the conversation resulted in just enough distraction to put a small hole in the back leg of the pelt and another hole a few moments later in my left thumb.

    Holding up my bloody index, I asked my buddy Ray what he thought was worse … the hole in the hide or the one on my hand. We both agreed that my thumb would heal. The hole in the hide was permanent.

    Through the years, my hands have acquired a few scars. My right palm has a small scar from a .22 shell exploding as I slammed the bolt shut on a bullet that had jammed part way into the chamber when I was about twelve.

    I was impatient and frustrated while hunting ground squirrels and made a stupid decision that left small pieces of brass imbedded in my palm. It would take four or five years before the slivers of metal would become a constant irritant and would need to be removed by a doctor.

    My left index finger has a scar at the top knuckle as a result of helping my dad skin a deer or antelope. I don’t remember any of the details, but it’s a great reminder of all the times he took me hunting.

    Man, I sure miss him.  That’s a scar that never completely heals I guess.

    Some scars are just reminders of what happens when I get too careless. The scar on the left side of my chin is a result of stepping off a porch and landing face first.

    The scar on the other side, along the jawbone, was the result of slamming into the windshield on my motorcycle when I hit a curb while watching my family as they travelled in another vehicle. It’s been a while since I’ve paid serious consequences from being that careless, so hopefully the lesson was well learned.

    Other scars are just the results of too much adrenaline and too little common sense. A dime-sized scar on my left knee brings back hundreds of memories of a camouflaged Kawasaki three wheeler called the Duckster.

    I sold nightcrawlers and minnows all summer to pay for the little ATV.  After the purchase, the outdoors became much bigger.  Rather than being confined within a few walking miles of my home, I could explore, hunt and fish in places that were previously unattainable.

    One morning I woke up in a hospital, though, with a bad case of amnesia and a hole in my knee. Guess that’s why they don’t make three wheelers anymore.

    Last Sunday in church, there was a short discussion about whether we would still have our scars in heaven. Since there was only a group of guys discussing it, the general consensus was that we definitely wanted to keep our scars.  After all, we earned them.

    Garrison Keillor summed it up pretty good when he said, “It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars.” I’m sure there will come a time when all I can do is sit in a rocking chair and hold a small grandchild on my lap. And when he plays with my fingers and asks about the small scar on the end of my thumb, I’ll have a great story for him about hunting coyotes.