I don’t want my scar to disappear—he tells me as I say goodnight. It’s a jagged line over the left lip. One that the doctor wrestled with in clips and tugs. A line that reminds me of my own parental shortcomings. Pain that I wish I could have prevented. Though I know it’s not my fault, I can still summon up sorrow, that leads to guilt, over this ridge in his skin. His soft shell wasn’t the only casualty of the accident, there were the six teeth as well. Some swallowed on impact, others later pulled due to misplacement.

Do you like it? I ask him. He is tucked in the top bunk, all 7 ½ years of him curled in a warm hug under blankets and sheets. He nods his head and I watch the scar that has faded ever so slightly in the past month move in unison with his admission. Not for the first time, I wonder in amazement at the timing of things. There is another boy in our lives who has a scar. His is also jagged like my son’s—some even say it’s shaped like a bolt of lightning. We met this boy at the end of last summer and he infected us all with his courage and adventures. While his scar is also on his face, it’s slightly more hidden—resting upon his forehead. Of course, Harry’s scar also gives him magical strength beyond human capabilities and a destiny for sacrificial love. This boy who came into our understanding before we knew we needed him, has made having a scar magical.

Magic isn’t real—I tell my boys between readings of our favorite books. Because it isn’t. At least not the kind that results from waving a wand or mixing a potion. But in this case, I think that there might be some magic in what reading a book has offered me and my son. A healing that no doctor could perform. A healing that doesn’t eliminate the scar but instead empowers what cannot be taken away. An offering to shift what could have been shame etched into his face into strength.

You will always have your scar—I comfort him with words that still don’t comfort me. And so, after I have kissed him twice and hugged him once I exit the room, shut the door and whisper the words that do offer the comfort I’m seeking. Thank you, God that it wasn’t worse when he fell face first into pain.