A guitarist probably needs to take care of his or her hands. So should a pianist. I’ve often wondered what I’d do if I lost a hand or two. Or even a finger. I suppose I could still be a singer.

But this last 2 weeks has shown me that losing the use of my hands would drive me crazy.

I was on our Mid Year Conference with EU, the Christian group at Adelaide Uni that I work with half my time. We’re playing touch rugby. For anyone in a touch-playing part of the world, this may seem like no big deal. I come from Sydney, where playing touch footy on a camp is just the normal thing. But here in Adelaide, footy means AFL.

So I’m really happy about the announcement at lunch that we’re going to be playing touch rugby at 3pm. I’m there early, with my trackies and trainers, to pass the footy around a bit and get in the mood. Some of the folk don’t know how to play, and so here’s my chance to help with some rules, tips, and all-round enthusiasm.

Then the game starts. It’s all a bit messy until we get a volunteer ref. We’ve got about 10 people per side, the field is pretty sloped, and I’m running downhill.

I get the ball. I see a gap on the left and I run for it. I have to reach out quite a bit to get through, especially since I’m just under twice the age of many of my opponents. But I’m through, and the ball is down… glory!

But not half as much glory as I was about to get, as I steamed toward the tree inconveniently placed a couple of metres back from the try line. My brakes just aren’t that good. I should have slid.

Instead I went flying into the base of the tree. It was a bit of a blur, but there was pain and numbness in my left hand. I look down, and sure enough, a great big hole, right in the middle, and a reasonable amount of the red stuff.

Most people didn’t realise that there was any major problem, but I took myself off the field, still smiling, but with a VERY sore hand.

Because I’m not wanting sympathy, I’ll spare you the details about everyone looking after me. Needless to say, when you’re one of the leaders, everyone seems to notice when this sort of thing happens. I go off to the local medical centre and get fixed up with a couple of stitches. I had them out just yesterday.

My reflections on this have affected me considerably.
There are basically two…

First, I know that it could’ve been much worse. If the branch had a sharp edge, it could’ve cut tendons or muscles. Of course it could’ve hit me in the face, which was probably what I was trying to avoid by holding out my hand out. I believe my Lord, who controls everything, spared me from what could’ve been much worse. A musician friend joked with me that perhaps God is telling me to give up music so I can play sport. Of course he really meant the opposite.

Second, I now have a nasty wound, which will become a scar and stay with me, in the middle of my left hand. It was a conference on the Cross of Jesus Christ, and whilst sitting at the outdoor chapel at the end of the conference, looking up at this life size cross up on the top of this hill, I was very moved to think of my saviour who was pierced for me. My wound is just a scratch really. Jesus wound was his whole life, for me. His hand was pierced as he exchanged his death for my death. I have this reminder on my hand, that by the grace of God I will carry around with me all my days on the earth.

I thank Him that… “by his wounds I am healed” (Isaiah 53:5).