Waxahachie Journal

Aidan ran to me, right hand outstretched with his fingers splayed.  He only had a few steps to go before I scooped him up and held him close, somewhat smothering his shrieks while holding his arm to examine the tiny hand.  A drop of blood ran down his tiny index finger.  Somehow the door closing on it had torn the top half of his fingernail from the nail bed and folded it back over the lower part.  This was the only injury.

I knew that the nail needed to be straightened out.  It would be infinitely more painful if the nail bed remained exposed, but because of the concave shape of fingernails, flattening it would press down on the pained area and briefly hurt much worse.  I gritted my teeth and pressed the nail forward.  As I expected, he screamed in baby agony and no explanation from me would sooth his pain.  He couldn't understand why I had to hurt him in order to help him.  

Elyssa stood close by, her face pale with misery.  Aidan's cries and his spilled blood were wringing her little heart.  In a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, she repeated "I'm sorry that I smashed your finger in the door.  I'm sorry!" over and over.  I wiped his hand clean, carefully avoiding that finger as much as possible, and as I rocked him for a while, his cries became low moans.

At the same time, I had a gentle "mommy talk" with Elyssa.  "I know this was an accident.  You were not trying to hurt your brother, but we have told you so many times that this kind of thing and much worse can happen when you slam doors on people.  If you had obeyed, then this would not have happened to Aidan's hand.  Please remember this the next time you think about slamming doors."  

She was truly remorseful, and I didn't want to crush her little "bruised reed" heart.  Then suddenly, urgently, she said, "Let's pray for Aidan's hurt finger, so that Jesus will make it better."  

"That's a great idea," I said, "Go ahead."  I knew that she preferred for me to guide her in prayers that she could repeat, but she seemed to have the initiative to handle it this time.

She hesitated a moment and seemed to be gathering her thoughts.  "Dear Jesus, I did a bad thing and now Aidan's finger is hurt from getting smashed in the door.  Please help him feel all better.  Amen."

"Amen." I agreed.  

Aidan had quieted by this point and was breathing heavily.  His damp eyes started to droop.  It was nearly naptime when the accident happened and now he was spent.  I took him to his crib, gave him his beloved Little Bear and pacifier.  I noticed as he cuddled his bear how careful he was with his right hand.  The finger was clearly still very touchy.
My husband, Brent, got home from work just as Aidan was waking up.  I told him about the accident, but as Elyssa was still clearly very sorry for having caused it, we were both careful with her feelings.  
When I got Aidan to up, I brought him to Brent to show him the injury.  To my shock, the fingernail that had been half torn up and filled with blood beneath the nail looked the same as the others.  I wondered if I had the wrong hand and was just looking at dirt under the end of some other fingernail.  I double-checked, but it wasn't the wrong hand.  No, that was dried blood still under the end, but the nail bed looked perfectly fine.  The little white line where it had been folded back was so faint that you could scarcely see it.  There was no bruise, no discoloration, nothing trapped underneath.  

I was shocked as I stood there explaining to Brent how it had looked just an hour before, wondering aloud how it had no sign of injury and how his finger wasn't even sensitive anymore.  Elyssa had been watching and listening, eager to check Aidan's status, and she exclaimed, as though a dam had burst inside, "Well, Mama, I asked Jesus to make it better, remember?  See.  He did!"

I gulped down a lump of shame and nodded, "Yes honey, He sure did."

I believe that God has the power to heal us.  I teach that to my children.  How absurd my reaction must have seemed to Elyssa!  I had prayed with her for Aidan's finger to get better, but upon seeing that it was indeed better, I was shocked and confused about how that had happened.  I'd completely forgotten about our prayer.  But she had not forgotten.  Instead, she was expectant, waiting for the miracle of healing.

I have to wonder how often that happens in my life.  I always pray earnestly for the "big things," but how often do I pray about something "small," completely failing to have an expectation that it will be answered.  How effective is that prayer?  How many answered prayers have gone unnoticed, without even a thank you.

As I reflected, I understood better than I ever had why childlike faith pleases God so much.  Children hold nothing back.  They don't brace themselves for disappointment.  They don't hesitate, wondering if a matter is important enough to bother God with, or if they should just handle it on their own.  When they have a need, any need, they just ask and wait to receive.  That's the faith that I want to have--young faith.  

Until I became a parent, I didn't realize that children are walking object lessons!  However humbling it may be, I'm grateful for the opportunities that my children inspire for me to learn and grow.