Exactly seven months ago today, the blade hit bone.

The jarring pain was instant. So was the terror. One second I was cutting wood, the next I was staring at a mangled hand, wondering how much of it could be saved.

I’ve replayed it a thousand times since then—the scream of the saw, the blur of blood, the panic in my voice when I turned to Jason and asked, “What do I do?!”

I didn’t know it then, but I was stepping into the hardest, most transformative season of my life.

And now, as I stare at these photos—one from the trauma, one from today—I see more than just healing.

I see resurrection.

Not just in skin and nerve endings. Not just in tendons that somehow remembered how to move. But in my heart. My perspective. My dependence. My worship.

Because the truth is, God didn’t just save my hand. He saved my heart—and now, He is sanctifying my soul.

This wound has rewritten my days. It’s interrupted my work, altered my plans, and exposed my fragility. It’s humbled me. Silenced me. Taught me how to weep. Taught me how to pray.

And now—just one week away from yet another surgery—I find myself strangely grateful. Not because the pain is over. It’s not. But because the pain has never been wasted.

God has used every stitch, every scar, every limitation to teach me that I am not my productivity. I am not my independence. I am not my strength.

I am His.

And He is enough.

The photos prove what the surgeons did. But the real miracle is what God did underneath the grafted, stitched-together skin—inside the prideful places where self-sufficiency used to live. Inside the anxious corners of my mind that used to believe that if I didn’t hold it all together, it would all fall apart.

I don’t believe that anymore.

Because I did fall apart. And He held me.

He still is.

So no, this isn’t the end of the journey. In many ways, it’s just another chapter. Another incision. Another prayer for strength and steadiness and presence on the other side of anesthesia.

But as I prepare to go under the knife again, I do so with peace—not because I know the outcome, but because I know the One who holds it.

The One who didn’t just allow this season.

The One who authored it.

The One who is forming something far greater than restored motion—He’s forming me in the image of His Son and my Savior.

And that’s a miracle far more beautiful than anything a camera could capture.