Daddy's Healing Hands

"Hold still."

Plucking the long thin scalpel from the counter, he slowly drew the razor sharp instrument toward my hand. I yanked hard, but he held on like a vice. My veins pulsed.

He looked intently into my eyes. "You must hold still. It will all be over in a minute."

I dug my fingernails into his flesh, desperately trying to pry his fist open with my free hand. But, his fingers were like iron. As his cold sharp blade pierced my skin, I shrieked and threw myself on the floor - both legs and one loose arm flailing - causing the knife to jab deep into my thumb. Blood gushed down my wrist. He released his grasp.

Astonished, I surveyed the damage. It was over. Just like that.

"If you'd held still, you wouldn't be bleeding," he sighed.

He reached down gently with the same hands that had held me captive and wiped away all of my blood. He gently pressed the wound he made, and I watched - both horrified and fascinated - as green oozed out. Lots of it. The pain of his wounding was nothing compared to the pain I'd been living with. His piercing of my flesh released the throbbing pressure and purged the infection festering beneath my skin.

He washed and bound my wound, wiping away my tears, and wrapped his arms around my faithless mess. "It would've been a lot less painful, if you'd held still and trusted me." He was right.

Daddy was a surgeon, who'd saved many lives and bound many wounds... much worse than mine. In fact, Daddy was right about a lot of things. Days earlier, I burned my hand doing something Daddy told me not to do. When he asked about my wound, I told him it wasn't that bad. It was. So, I hid it from him.

Then, my wound got infected because I neglected to cleanse it like Daddy instructed. He offered to help me care for my wound, but I was stubborn, prideful, and not interested in missing any summer fun by wasting time dealing with my self-inflicted injury. So I lied and told him I'd taken care of it. I had. Sort of. I'd jumped in the pool. To an eight-year-old, that legally counts as a bath.

I avoided Daddy, fearing he'd discover the undeniable proof of my disobedience. Fortunately for me, my sin found me out. Eventually, I had to relent and seek Daddy's help, because my wound became so swollen and painful, it was impossible to hide.

All of my pain and suffering could've been avoided if I'd simply trusted and obeyed my father to begin with. He'd never given me any reason to doubt him. My father was a great provider, protector, caregiver, and skilled surgeon, who knew how to carefully pierce only the flesh that was necessary for healing. He never cut anyone open, unless it was necessary for their good; and he never cut anyone open without also binding up their wounds.

If I'd trusted and obeyed my father, I never would've burned myself in the first place. Hiding my wound only caused it to fester. His knife only made me bleed, because I'd struggled to free myself from his healing hands.

"For the wound of the daughter of my people is my heart wounded (Jeremiah 8:21-22 ESV)."

When we don't trust and obey our Heavenly Father's warnings, we burn ourselves. When we don't cleanse those wounds, they fester. We can take our wounds to Him, even our self-inflicted ones, and trust Him to cut away things from our hearts and lives that harm us. He will never pierce us, unless it's necessary for our good, and He will always bind our wounds.

What wounds need healing today?

"For he wounds, but he binds up; he shatters, but his hands heal (Job 5:18 ESV)."

Copyright © June 5, 2013 by Kathy Thomas. Used by permission.