The Finger of God

A year and a half ago, I experienced a debilitating concussion. Not being able to drive, work, or get out of bed shook me to the core in all the ways you’d expect, and it did something more, too.

Before the concussion, my intelligence was my identity. I was wise and witty, the one who remembered everything. And then I wasn’t.

Nine months into my recovery, while I was still mourning the loss of my old self, something else happened. It’s so trivial, it seems like it’s not even worth mentioning. I want to tell you about it, though, because it was the beginning of a miracle in my life.

I was trying to close a window and it came down on my hand, guillotine style, partially amputating my fingertip. I felt part of me squish where just a moment before, there had been firmness and structure. While we waited to get my finger stitched up, the words “This is the finger of God” kept replaying in my mind. This injury was a drop in the bucket compared to the trauma I’d experienced over the last three years, yet it felt significant.

I was kind of embarrassed to even think this. I kept dismissing it, reminding myself a smashed fingertip isn’t a terminal diagnosis. I didn’t even need surgery. So why couldn’t I stop crying? I’ve been hit by a car and given birth five times without medication. Yet here I was, in the worse physical pain of my life.

The next thing I noticed was the physician who gave me stitches. She didn’t dismiss my pain or talk about other people with worse injuries. She looked at and spoke to me tenderly. As if I mattered. I let her care for me and my squishy, misshapen finger.

This is the finger of God.

A few days later I got a message from a friend. She’d been praying for me, and she’d realized that first my brain (my primary identity) had been injured and now my hand (my creativity) was injured. Creativity was, without a doubt, the other trait I was most known for. I excelled at anything involving fine motor skills. And now my hand was limp ans bandaged. My doctor assured me I would regain full use of it, but said the pain could last for over a year.

This is the finger of God.

These days I get fewer headaches. The scar on my finger is barely visible, and the pain is gone. Sometimes I still feel the faint tingling buzz. Nerves. Healing.

Yet I’m not “back to normal.” Feeling a squish where there should be strength changes you. I experienced vulnerability and my mortality through this tiny injury more than I ever had during actual brushes with death.

How can that be?

In the Exodus story, Pharaoh’s magicians say, “This is the finger of God” when they realize the plagues are more than just inconveniences. These attacks are targeted assaults on their identity and belief system. They’re out of their depth. In that moment, they acknowledge God’s power.

It’s not so different from what happened to me. The injuries to my head and my hand both forced me to reexamine my identity and my deeply held beliefs.  I realized there had to be more to God than just someone who takes things away. And there had to be more to me.

Recently a friend told me when he looked at me, he saw trauma, and also saw a hero. He asked,  “How can you be the hero you need?”

At first I was angry. How did he expect me to be a hero with brain damage?!

That’s when I realized my brain was never the hero. My creative talents were never the heroes either, any more than the Egyptian gods were.  My intelligence and creativity were shiny objects, easy to see, easy to idolize.

I don’t fully understand, but I acknowledge that God is at work beyond all of that. I think He wanted me to experience love apart from my ability to perform. To see Him in a new way and by extension, see myself in a new way. When God extends himself to me in restorative ways, I want to recognize that.

What strengths have you been tempted to base your identity on? And how is the finger of God evident in your life right now?

Hannah Kallio is an Israeli who’s at home in France, Italy, and Minnesota. A homemaker who had it all, gave it all away, and lived out of a backpack, she loves one man, 5 kids, and the crazy story God is writing in their lives even more than palm trees, ancient ruins, and the deepest dark chocolate. She writes, coaches, speaks, sings, and creates her guts out at hannahkallio.org.

Photograph © Chris Campbell, used with permission