At the age of eleven, I was diagnosed with a kidney condition which made it necessary for me to take large doses of medications for several years. When I was in high school, one of those medications had to be administered intravenously, usually in the back of the hand.
Between frequent sessions and the occasional slip of the needle, the backs of both hands became scarred. I attended Happening 16 where I heard "I AM" in a still small voice in my head.
Six months later, I went to a Discovery Weekend [a family retreat] at Good Sam, where the teenagers had a small group of their own. We listened to a recorded description of Jesus' passion.
We heard in vivid detail of what a cat-o'-nine-tails was, how many lashes it took for that whip to kill someone, what kind of thorns were smashed on Jesus' head, what the "hand" of the ancient world referred to... on and on.
I started to daydream, wondering what it felt like for a piece of steel to go through my hand from my palm, using my thumb to mimic the nail. I closed my eyes to fully experience it and my fingers gently brushed the bandage from where the intravenous needle had gone in. I turned my hand over and pressed hard. No, I didn't know what it felt like for the nail to go in from the palm, but I sure knew what it felt like for a small-gauge needle to go from the back forward, what kind of damage was inflicted in the name of "helping".
"Unless I see the nail marks in his hand, and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand in his side, I will not believe."
I put my finger where my nails were, I put my hand in my side; how much more did He die for me! All I remember is seeing His face and mumbling to myself, "My Lord and My God" and, "the doctors were only trying to help."
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