There were a couple years when my family lived in Western NY. We had a house on Cedar St, which was located just a few blocks from the church school we attended. At that time I was around eleven years old, my sister Aimee was ten, and my brother Joel was eight. Because we lived so close, we often walked to and from school.
Coming home from school one day, we discovered not only Moms car but also Dads truck in the driveway. Dad’s truck was never in the driveway before 5PM. We ran into the house excitedly looking for him. Mom met us at the door. Dad had been in an accident.
My dad had a construction company at the time and had been on a job site. Apparently while cutting a 2x4, the skill saw snagged on the wood, bounced out of his right hand and landed on the left. Then the saw proceeded to crawl up his arm. He had several deep gashes. The worst was his thumb, which he almost severed.
I walked into the bedroom with my brother and sister. Dad was in bed, his hand bandaged. He had been sleeping but was now awake and sitting up. He smiled at us. Then he showed us his bandages and told us how it happened, and how he should have been more careful, and how the doctors barely saved his thumb. Yes, it hurt, but he had medicine now and felt better. Yes, lots of blood…
When my dad finished explaining the accident, my brother and sister’s interest waned. Not me, I moved to the next - to me - obvious question. “Why did it happen?” I asked. I didn’t just want to know how; I had to know why. “Why” was one of my favorite questions as a kid. …It still seems to come up from time to time.
As a kid I put my dad in some tough situations with that question. “Dad, why did God let Keith Green die?” , “Dad, why does God let the African children die of hunger” And finally, “Dad, why do you think you nearly cut your thumb off, why would God let it happen?”
Coming home from school one day, we discovered not only Moms car but also Dads truck in the driveway. Dad’s truck was never in the driveway before 5PM. We ran into the house excitedly looking for him. Mom met us at the door. Dad had been in an accident.
My dad had a construction company at the time and had been on a job site. Apparently while cutting a 2x4, the skill saw snagged on the wood, bounced out of his right hand and landed on the left. Then the saw proceeded to crawl up his arm. He had several deep gashes. The worst was his thumb, which he almost severed.
I walked into the bedroom with my brother and sister. Dad was in bed, his hand bandaged. He had been sleeping but was now awake and sitting up. He smiled at us. Then he showed us his bandages and told us how it happened, and how he should have been more careful, and how the doctors barely saved his thumb. Yes, it hurt, but he had medicine now and felt better. Yes, lots of blood…
When my dad finished explaining the accident, my brother and sister’s interest waned. Not me, I moved to the next - to me - obvious question. “Why did it happen?” I asked. I didn’t just want to know how; I had to know why. “Why” was one of my favorite questions as a kid. …It still seems to come up from time to time.
As a kid I put my dad in some tough situations with that question. “Dad, why did God let Keith Green die?” , “Dad, why does God let the African children die of hunger” And finally, “Dad, why do you think you nearly cut your thumb off, why would God let it happen?”
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