Blessing stamped hands
For half my life I grew up with my hands in casts and bandages. No, I wasn’t a daredevil who broke her arms constantly. I didn’t do so much as climb a high tree due to my fear of heights. I was seen in bandages often because I burnt both my hands at 8 months old attempting to walk. I obviously do not remember this event as I was just an infant, however, I do remember many trips to the hospital for once again another surgery. At 8 months old I had fallen, hands first, on a still lit fireplace glass door. My baby skin had scorched, leaving my hands with third-degree burns. Up until the age of 12, I had had 7 surgeries between both hands because although they were growing, the skin was not. Between surgeries, check-ups, physical therapy, and the inability to write, attending public school wasn’t quite an option for a while.
To this day I still have a hard time opening one hand fully due to its inelasticity. Growing up, my hands made me different and I liked it. But as junior high hit, I became self-conscious of my palms. I would avoid raising my hand, waving at people, and hated holding hands in a group because it wouldn’t be long until someone could feel the difference in my palms. It’s still a struggle for me. If I splurge and get my nails done, I await the look and stare as they notice there’s something off about this girl’s skin. Sometimes I wish I had a shirt that read, “yes, I burnt my hands. No, they’re not numb” so I could get past the initial reaction of people noticing. I have had too many reactions to count and have heard every question and comment out there.
Although my hands are a big flaw that I’m self-conscious of, it’s also a huge blessing stamped on my palms. I could have easily fell on my face or scarred my entire body, but the Lord kept me from further harm and left a reminder on my hands that I will never forget.
Jesus died with piercings through his hands for me. I was left with a couple of scars, alive with a story to share.