Reflection 5

In The Quiet of My Kitchen       

Sofia, Bulgaria 1989                                                                                                                  

The pain was excruciating. It traveled fast from under my fingernail through the arm, reaching the core of my being. It fueled up a cry within. It flamed out my senses. It burned in a single prayer thought: "Lord, where are you to heal me the way you healed the servant's ear that night in Gethsemane when Peter took a knife and cut it off?" In that split second, my soul reached out for the only source of relief it knew.

Disgusted with myself, I had to face harsh reality. I was now to endure the discomfort of my injured finger for the next few weeks. As I was washing the streaming blood, I kept blaming myself for not being careful enough with that forked-shaped, double-edged kitchen knife. After an intense morning of science lecturing, I was too tired, hungry, and impatient. The pounding in my head warned me of quickly dropping blood sugar level. The cramps in my stomach urged me to hurry up. The thought of a freshly made sandwich blurred the precision of my hand-eye coordination. The knife flew off my hand, piercing the flesh deep under my fingernail. My effort to alleviate the hunger left me with much greater trouble to bear.

The misery grew as my mind projected the pain that I was to endure weeks ahead. Not all households in my country enjoyed the convenience of a washing machine. Neither did my family. Public laundry machines were non-existent. Hand washing the clothes used the day before was an essential part of my daily chores. Hand washing with a deep wound under my fingernail meant repeated pain, pain, pain. It was too high a price to pay in exchange for silencing my hunger. 

The rest of the day went fast. The daily tasks around the house took my attention away from the accident. Only the tight bandage on my finger was a bitter reminder of my self-inflicted wound. 

I did not deal with my injured finger until bedtime, when I had to change the bandage. At the edge of my bed, I took time to gather strength and face the consequences of the injury. I knew lifting the bandage would cause pain, so I was careful. Slowly, I began revealing the affected area. With my finger in full sight, I could not see the exact spot where the tip of the knife had entered. Bringing it closer to my eyes did not help either. Touching it brought further disbelief. There was no sign of any injury. There was no incision, no pain, and no scar. 

Did it ever happen? Had the tip of the knife really pierced deep under the nail? I recalled the pain, the blood washing down the drain, and the numbness of my entire arm. The bloody bandage, still in my hand, was clear evidence that what had happened earlier in the day was an authentic experience. 

For the next few moments, my mind struggled to reconcile the sight of my completely uninjured finger with the memories of the incident. When everything came into focus, my cry at that moment stood out: "Where are you, Jesus?" I had cried out then. "Here I am" was the answer. 

"Here I am". "Here I am". The words echoed in my mind throughout the night. My Lord, Jesus, had stood next to me. He healed me the way he healed that servant in Gethsemane 2000 years ago, just as I had prayed. He restored my flesh the way He had restored his. The Creator of the Universe took time to stand beside me and heal me. He did not perform this miracle on a big stage. He did not seek a large audience or any applause. Instead, He manifested His glory in the quiet of my kitchen. He did it for me, only for me. 

That night, the Lord spoke to me clearly. As I reflected on this experience, I wondered at the attention I was given to injuring my little finger. After all, it was not a life-threatening injury but a small wound that would have healed in a few weeks. Then, I understood. It was a much bigger miracle; it was my heart that the Lord had healed. 

During the previous months, I had been struggling with overwhelming doubts. I questioned the truthfulness of the Bible. I listened unconvinced to the pastor's message, wondering if he believed what he preached. The doubts had grown deep in my heart, affecting my faith and relationship with the Lord. In the light of the small miracle of healing, I grew immensely in understanding. It was not the healing of my finger that was the core of this event. His love entered deep in, uprooted the doubts, and prepared my heart for His Word to be inscribed on. His presence, the Lord Jesus himself, healed my disbelief. 

Task: Rate your confidence level in God’s healing from trauma, with 1 being low confidence and 10 being the highest confidence.  _____

Task: Record your thoughts and reflect on your faith in divine healing

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