Power of the Small: Fingers

While studying the human body, my tenth grade biology teacher dedicated a day for studying the structure of human hands. She told us, in an attempt to communicate the importance of our fingers, to tape a Popsicle stick to each finger from the side of our palms. That would prevent our joints and knuckles from moving. So there we were—thirty students, three hundred Popsicle sticks, numerous rolls of tape—struggling to grasp our pencils with our new “fingers.” We were all frustrated that these “Popsicle fingers” weren’t functioning efficiently; we couldn’t carry our books, push our hair from our faces, or even open the door to leave the classroom. Unanimously, we agreed that that was the most beneficial biology lesson we’ve ever had. I remember going home that afternoon, constantly thanking God for creating our hands the way He did. Of course that phase of spiritual gratitude only lasted for a day or two, then it slowly began to fade. 

Last summer, my cousin had her graduation party, and we spent the entire day playing volleyball in the shade. I was confident with my skills, and naturally, I had to show them off. I should’ve known better. A member of the opposing team came up to serve, and from the unusual gleam in her eyes I knew something bad was coming. I braced to receive the serve: I locked my elbows into place, wiped the sweat dribbling from my forehead, and watched the ball as it made its way towards me. In my attempt to set the ball upward, I felt my right thumb crumple under the intense pressure of the plummeting ball. I fell to the floor and held my thumb like a little child, crying to be nurtured. The game paused and all eyes were on me. A few girls ran towards me and pointed out the sudden discoloration of my finger. It’s only swollen, I thought to myself, that’s it, it’s only swollen—nothing more. My friends abandoned me to finish up their game. In my lonesome, I rested under a tree, with a frozen pop can against my thumb, recalling that one day in biology class when we all wore Popsicle sticks around our fingers. I couldn’t move my thumb, and I felt like I was reliving that classroom experience all over again. 

The next day my doctor gave me a cast (yes, a cast) for my broken thumb. I didn’t think it would be that bad walking around with molded plaster around my hand. I still had my left fingers to work with, and my mom excused me from doing dishes and other housework until I healed. I was also smothered with attention and care–from friends, family, teachers, and even those I didn’t know–during the seven weeks my cast was on. Yayyy, I thought, I’m so privileged! 

However, I was wrong. 

I don’t know what I was thinking then. Looking back, those were the worst seven weeks of my life. All my memories of those days are accompanied by feelings of hopeless suffering and desire. I only remember being forced to drop my calculus class, struggling to put my clothes on every morning, and crying to get the soap out of my eyes as I took my daily shower. I consulted my sister about this one morning while the two of us ate our breakfast. She was happily crafting together an egg sandwich, while I juggled a spoon from hand to hand above my bowl of cereal. I was looking for a position to secure my spoon between my fingers and cast, but the task was almost impossible. The cheerios became soggy and the milk warmed up by the time I consumed my first bite. My sister watched me from the corner of her eyes and gave a little chuckle. 

“What’s so funny?” I asked. 

Her mind wandered in deep thought before she replied. She then concluded that God was teaching me a lesson to be more grateful. Well, I thought, I think I’ve already had that lesson in tenth grade biology class.

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Fingers: simple in structure, fragile when not protected, yet efficient for an infinite number of human tasks. How often do we sit down and praise our fingers for all the papers they’ve typed for us? For all the doors they’ve opened? For all the spoonfuls of food they’ve placed in our hungry mouths? Fingers: just ten little outstretched digits covered in skin, composed of twenty-eight bones, and wrapped with several layers of thin muscles. They excel in both fine and gross motor skills to help us accomplish everyday tasks. It may have taken me seven months of rubbing shampoo out of my eyes, but now after each essay I type, or each homework assignment I complete, I say to myself: “Thank God for fingers.” 

In Memory of My Tenth Grade Biology Teacher: Ms. Jahnke…