I’m weirdly, overly wary around knives. It will be my birthday, and someone will say something like, OK, birthday girl, you cut the cake! And I’ll refuse, if at all possible. Because I am not to be trusted around knives. Knives and I do not get along.
Oh, I’ll be careful. I’ll pay close attention to cooking shows too, and so I know about things like using your knuckles as the guide, so that your fingertips are always safely pulled back away from the blade of the knife. Still, things go wrong. Somehow I’m always more than a little at risk of losing fingertips, or at least contributing an extra unplanned (red) ingredient to the dish.
Wednesday night I was cutting up some oversized yams for dinner. By oversized, I mean: gargantuan. I had my big choppy knife out. I had one hand on the handle and the knife in the yam and my other hand on the back of the knife to guide it downward with my fingers safely splayed back and away from danger. And then, something happened.
I can’t explain how it happened to you, even now. It all happened so fast, and makes no sense. But suddenly the yam was no where to be found, and the hand that had been on the back of the knife a moment ago was splayed on the cutting board just as the knife came down full thrust…
Right onto my index finger.
Full speed, no hesitation, at the right angle to take my finger off at the first knuckle. Or at least to get far enough through it that it may as well have.
But it didn’t.
The knife came down… but my finger stayed on.
With barely a scratch.
I’ll just go on record that the goodness of God is not dependent on whether I keep all my fingers or not. God would be good, even if I’d actually chopped my stupid hand off. People do, you know.
But I didn’t, and I have no explanation other than God is immeasurably good and merciful.
And apparently didn’t intend me to lose my finger on Wednesday.