A week ago yesterday I burnt my hand. Not just a little singe, but a proper, big-time burn.
My husband had sweetly turned the element on under the teakettle on our sealed-surface stove. I walked into the kitchen, picked up the kettle to make sure there was enough water in it, noticed a little water had spilled around the burner (not realizing it was ON) and swiped the water away with the side of my right hand.
ALL the way across the burner. Then I said, and I quote, “Ow, ow, ow, that was stupid, ow.”
I ran my hand under cool water for a bit and examined the damage. There was a long, raised area of pale flesh that throbbed in spectacular fashion. But it didn’t appear blistered, so I dabbed on (ow, ow, ow) some Neosporin and sucked it up.
At church, one of the ladies in my Sunday School class (who is also my doctor) took one look at it and fetched me some ice.
So here’s the thing. On the way to church that morning, I thought to pray for healing for my hand. But that’s silly, right? God has much more important things to tend to than a burn that’ll heal on it’s own in a few days. I mean, it’s not like I needed healing. I just wanted the pain to go away.
And that’s when something occurred to me. What if God were to heal my hand not because it’s necessary or super important, but just because he loves me and wants to do something nice for me? Like getting your husband his favorite ice cream at the store. Or letting your kids play in the rain. Or sending a note just because you’re thinking of someone.
It was a sweet thought–imagining God healing my burn . . . just because.
And then Monday rolled around and I went to work and sent e-mails and answered phone calls and got the mail and opened packages and went to lunch and wrote letters and . . . realized my hand didn’t hurt. Not even a little bit.
If I looked closely I could see the faintest red mark, smaller than the day before. And it felt just the teensiest bit more sensitive than the skin around it. But I could rub it, run it under hot water, poke at it–no pain.
It’s easy to start thinking I wasn’t burned as badly as I imagined. It’s easy to say I’m a fast healer or that the Neosporin did the trick.
But me, I’m going to call it a miracle. And why would God do a miracle for me? Because he loves me, that’s why.