I've been reminded about God's hands this week. They don't come out of the firmament accompanied by a bolt of lightning, but through a person (in this case, a man) who gets an inordinate glee from being allowed to do something that fascinates him.
Let me explain: Picture a guy--just a kid really, maybe as much as 30 years old, but looking 17, who walks into a hospital room wearing very slick slacks, dressy shirt, shiny shoes. He looks like he's getting ready to go on a date, all spiffy and eager, contained. He has come to talk about options for what can possibly be done for a 95 year old mother with a broken hip who cannot speak for herself. I, the daughter ask him about alternatives to the radical surgery. He explains those, none of them acceptable to my way of thinking. I tell him I view the alternatives as a cruel thing to do to an old woman. He agrees.
So I say I think it's important that my mother be able to walk as long as she's on the earth, that he should do the surgery.
Now's the good part: He gives me a huge smile, rubs his hands together and does a little bounce. He says he'll be in touch and barely containing himself, whisks out the door. Permission has been granted for him to do what he loves.
Wednesday, this man/child takes out a crushed ball joint in my mother's hip, replaces it with a titanium prosthesis, and sews/glues it all back together very neatly. On Friday, my 95 year old mother walks across the room (not dances, more like staggers) but gets there and back.
Now, who told that kid he could keep a certainly imminent and painful death away from my little mother for a little while longer? It was just another day for him. It was maybe a couple more years for us. There is no doubt in my mind that God streamed through science and this man's mind and hands to accomplish a miracle.