blog first published on June 15, 2017
It happened too quickly for me to react - a classic example of an accident. I was sitting at a table with a group of men who called themselves, “Carpenter’s Carvers.” We gathered together once a month to make wooden crosses, pectoral crosses to wear and relief crosses to hang on the wall. These crosses were given away. Some went to confirmation students, graduates, and seminarians. Some went to those who lost a loved one. The handmade crosses were always appreciated. It was a great group. In addition to making sawdust, we’d eat peanuts and share jokes. It was fun and something to which I looked forward to each month; active fellowship that did something for others.
One night, I came to the group from another meeting. They were already in progress “chipping” wood and eating peanuts. Stories and jokes were already flowing freely around the table. I left the bulk of my tools, my current projects, and my safety glove at home. I must not have thought that the other meeting would have gotten out early. I did have my carving knife and some wood, though. I ‘jumped in’ to the conversation and peanut eating. I began carving. It was well into the evening, getting darker outside; you could see it through the windows.
Suddenly, it happened. In a nanosecond, the piece of wood that I was carving broke. The blade continued through the wood and through the first of my fingers on my left hand. I blurted out, “Sugar!” Quick aside: from an extremely young age, my son Noah liked to ‘help out’ in my workshop. Although I try to keep profanity to a minimum, when I’m in the workshop I have found that a lil’ cussing seems to be effective. With little ears around, I trained myself to replace “S@#t” with “sugar.” The night of my carving accident, which would have been an appropriate situation to make a reference to feces, I blurted out ‘sugar.’
The knife was sharp. The cut was deep and clean. At first, it didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. I think my body was in shock. The other guys sprang into action. Someone got paper towels. My friend Lee said, “I’ll take you to the hospital.” My reply, “do you think I need to go?” Multiple responses, “YES!”
So I went. As it turned out, the ER had called in a plastic surgeon for another case. He sewed me up. I cut the tendon in my left pointer finger. Months of rehab and a hand surgery later, my finger could no longer bend at the knuckle. For the rest of my life, I was going to have a defect, a physical reminder of an accident. Ironically, the item that I was carving was a dove. LOL.
So that I don’t forget, let me be sure to share a word of thanks to the guys that were there that night and helped me out. Also, to my family, church, and those in the medical profession that supported my rehab - thanks. As I’m typing this reflection, my left pointer finger is moving rapidly with all my other digits. The human body is amazing and durable; I have been able to compensate for a “forever frozen in a slight bend” finger.
The experience of being maimed – even if I still can type and most people don’t notice – was unsettling. I thought that I was invincible. I thought that my body was fully functional. I thought that I was careful. The truth is, I’m not any of these things. I have a broken body. This side of paradise, I won’t be able to bend my finger. Ever.
Accidents, unintended consequences of actions, slips, breaks, cuts – our bodies tell a story. No matter how dramatic this might be, or seemingly inconsequential to others, we embody our flawed stories. Some of this is hidden - the scars are internal and seen by no one. Some of this embodiment is painfully obvious, which creates its own set of challenges. Our past experiences mark our bodies in ways that are unique and stand out for us (if no one else). We can choose to bury these markers or use them to grow.
For me, the experience of a damaged finger has become instructive. Practically, I know what it is like to go through physical therapy and not be able to move a part of my body no matter how hard I try. I also know – even if it is in a small way – that accidents happen in a flash of a moment and have lasting results. My frozen finger has taught me that I’m breakable. I have limits too. I can’t do everything. Sometimes I can’t get enough strength in my left hand to open a jar or hold onto something. I need to ask for help.
It is important to learn and embody the virtue of humility. Sadly, these lessons come with a hefty price tag. For me, it came at the tip of my finger. Sugar.
Permission granted to share with family and friends. Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger