With Gianna on her one-wheeler attached to my bike , Joe with Benjamin in tow, and Ian on his own, we raced to see who could reach our house first at the end of our Thanksgiving day family bike ride. Noticing the mounds of leaves piled up in the gutters I accidently swerved into them. My front wheel was wobbly and I could tell I was losing control of my bike. Gianna prudently jumped off her seat while my bike twisted and slid on its side. I braced myself with my hands; I was lucky not to break my wrists.
By the time I got home, blood was gushing from both palms and I had a nick on my elbow. I cleaned my gashes and bandaged them. Applying antibiotic ointment, my wounds began to heal. Because of the grossness factor I kept my Band-Aids on for our Thanksgiving dinner celebration with family. My hands started to ache on our drive home. The locations of the sore made it difficult to keep any bandages on. Plus, my husband reminded me they heal quicker when they are exposed to the air. When I returned home I took the bandages off.
In public my scars left me self-conscious, like I had the stigmata. But the two-week process of looking at my palms change was like watching a slo-mo movie of a flower blooming.
I am not a medical person. I don’t like gore or blood or puss or needles or any of those. I get it from my father who passed out the first time in front of a cadaver in medical school (he immediately switched colleges to become a psychologist). But I could not help noticing my hands.
The mini scabs that were less visible on surface of my left palm began to close. The hole in my right palm was big and deep. It was like I could see into the middle of my hand with the different layers and colors of skin. All three of the sores were in common places that I kept bumping, so I would notice a tinge of blood in my big wound when I would overdo.
The scab kept getting smaller and smaller. Now the big red blotch is only the size of dime. It’s not completely healed, but it is getting closer. I wondered at how our God makes our bodies to where they can get ripped and damaged, but also he can heal them….right before our eyes.
As I collected myself and my bike from the street and stoically headed back home, Ian whizzed by us towards the house. He announced that he won. And I said, “Yes, you did.”
I am happy to be “sore loser”. I have a God who takes away my sores and heals my body.
The Catholic Women’s Guide to Healthy Relationships Tip: Appreciate the wonder of how God created the human body.