The Invitation That Set ‘Scars & Sovereignty’ in Motion
It was supposed to be a normal day.
J texted me that morning. We had long planned to build a fireplace mantel for his house, and this was the day. Nothing unusual, nothing that felt like a turning point in my life. Just another project with my best friend—the kind of thing we’d done a hundred times before.
I said yes. Of course, I did.
What I didn’t know was that a few hours later, I’d be laying on a gurney, fighting to stay conscious as my own blood pooled in the crook of my elbow.
The Moment Everything Shifted
The mantel was taking shape. The project was going smoothly—until it wasn’t.
We were ripping a 45° bevel on a 6-foot-long, 1-by-8 board when it suddenly lifted up in just the wrong way at just the wrong moment. Instinctively, I used my right fist to push it down.
But the board kicked.
And when the table saw blade sucked the board back in, it sucked my fist in with it.
I didn’t even feel it at first. Not really. Just the impact, the jarring force—and then I yanked my hand back.
And then the realization.
The open flesh. The index and middle fingers dangling in the palm of my hand by just a small piece of skin. The ring finger nicked. The pinky nail gone.
The blood.
So much blood.
I looked down and saw what I couldn’t process. My hand wasn’t just injured. It was mangled.
The first words out of my mouth:
“J, what do I do?!”
The first words out of his:
“Talacey, call 911!”
J’s First Responder Instincts Kick In
Everything after that was a blur. Pain, yes—but more than that, shock. Disbelief. My mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
And J? He was already moving.
Nearly two decades as a sheriff’s deputy, countless emergencies under his belt. But this wasn’t just another call. This was me. His buddy.
He sat me down in a lawn chair on the patio, steadied me, and started asking questions—his training taking over where emotions threatened to. He needed to keep me talking, keep me alert. Assess the damage. Control the bleeding. He knew how quickly this could go south.
He was calm. Steady. In control.
I wasn’t.
My mind kept racing ahead to what I knew would never be the same again.
“J, how will I type again? How will I write? How will I click a mouse?”
Writing is my livelihood, my career, my passion.
And my panic set in.
But J kept saying, “You can’t unring this bell, Grant. Just look at me. Focus on me right now.”
The Aftermath at Home
My daughter, Sophia, was baking cupcakes in the kitchen when it happened—just on the other side of the window from where J put me in the chair. She was the one who called Talacey’s parents.
They rushed over and arrived just as the paramedics were wheeling my gurney to the ambulance.
J stayed behind at the house to clean up the mantel we had begun and put my saws and tools away. Then, on their hands and knees, he and my mother-in-law, Sandy, scrubbed my blood from the patio floor with hydrogen peroxide.
At the same time, with nothing more than a quick call from Talacey—“Grant’s been in an accident”—my mom and sister dropped everything. Without hesitation, they got in their car and drove through the night from Phoenix to Fresno, just to be there for my daughter while Talacey and I spent the week in San Francisco.
The Ambulance, the ER, and the Flight That Changed Everything
The ambulance arrived in minutes. And with it: blinding lights, sirens, medical personnel working quickly to keep me stable—calling ahead to the hospital so they’d know what they would soon be dealing with.
The ER team was ready. As my gurney pushed through the doors, four doctors and five nurses stood there waiting for me.
The lead doctor unwrapped the dish towels and ice packs J had used to keep pressure on my bleeding. Then, one by one, he looked at the other doctors and asked, “Buncke?”
One by one, each of them said, “Yes.”
That’s when I knew this was bigger than I had even begun to understand.
The lead doctor turned to me. “Grant, your injury is far more extensive than we can treat here.”
A helicopter was already en route. I was going to The Buncke Clinic in San Francisco.
The Buncke Clinic is the birthplace of ‘microsurgery’—the technique that makes delicate reattachments and nerve repairs possible. Surgeons from all over the world go there to train in the exact type of procedures I needed. Looking back, I see it clearly: God had placed me in the hands of the best surgeons in the world for this moment.
The helicopter arrived—a Bell 430, tail number N430UH, operated by SkyLife Air Ambulance—and suddenly, I was being loaded in, strapped down, prepped for the flight to a hospital that could handle trauma of this scale.
I looked up at the faces around me, strangers working to keep me stable.
And then, for the first time in what felt like hours, I let go.
I let the weight of it all settle.
I let the fear take hold.
I cried.
And then I prayed.
God Had Already Orchestrated It All
Looking back, I can see God’s fingerprints all over this journey.
- There was no one better than J to be there when it happened. As a career first responder, he knew exactly what to do.
- My cousin Cole is a supervisor at American Ambulance and happened to be on duty that day—responsible for the paramedics who took me to the ER.
- My lead ER nurse, Kari, knew Cole well, and her daughter played soccer with Monica’s and J’s daughters.
- My friend and pastor, Andrei, had a house full of missionaries that night. But when Monica called him to come pray for me, he and Val, one of his missionary visitors, were somehow there within minutes.
- The flight nurse, Katelyn, was a close friend of Cole’s. He made sure she would take care of me on the way.
- My Aunt Carol was in San Francisco on business. She left her dinner meeting to meet me at the hospital and stayed with me overnight in the ICU after surgery.
- My mother-in-law, Sandy, a physical therapist, made a call to get me in with Lindsay—the best occupational hand therapist in Central California.
- Lindsay, a believer originally from South Africa, was booked solid for months, yet by the grace of God, she cleared her schedule for me.
None of this was coincidence.
God had gone before me.
The Surgeries and the Battle Ahead
That night in San Francisco, I underwent a five-hour emergency surgery, which included:
- Replantation of my amputated right index and middle fingers
- Open reduction and percutaneous pinning of both fingers
- Right middle finger ulnar digital nerve repair with allograft (1 cm)
- Right middle finger radial digital nerve repair with allograft (2 cm)
- Right middle finger ulnar digital artery repair
- Right middle finger radial digital artery repair
- Right middle finger Zone 2 FDP tendon repair
- Right middle finger Zone 5 extensor tendon repair
- Right index finger Zone 5 extensor tendon repair
- Full-thickness skin graft (5×3 cm) from my right forearm to the middle finger
- Complex closure of index and middle fingers (10 cm)
- Right small finger nail bed laceration repair
But the battle isn’t over yet.
I still have two more surgeries ahead:
- MCP joint replacement in my index finger – The saw blade shaved off part of my MCP joint, leaving it damaged beyond repair. The only option now is to replace it entirely.
- Surgical removal of scar tissue – The excessive scar tissue is binding my tendons, restricting movement and function. This procedure, called tenolysis, will release the tendons so they can glide properly again.
Even now, healing is a long road. But as I’ve learned through this entire process—God is not done with me yet.
The Body of Christ in Action
Before I was even out of the hospital, Monica had already mobilized an army.
Friends, church members from Trinity, even my own dentist, were signing up to bring meals for weeks.
Packages arrived from friends in New York, Texas, Arizona, North Carolina.
My colleague and friend Kathy on Long Island sent me kindergarten pencils and writing guides so I could begin practicing with my left hand.
Sam, another colleague and friend from Charlotte, sent me a thumb-sized rock that said, “One day at a time.” The exact reminder I needed to help reframe my perspective each day. I still keep it on my side table today.
Across the globe, a group of 15 women in a small church in India I’ve never met were even praying for me.
The prayers and provision of God’s people sustained my family in the darkest moment of our lives. We were overwhelmed by love. The grace was abundant.
Scars That Tell a Bigger Story
These scars and this blog isn’t just about my accident.
It’s about the God who held me through it.
Finding God in Suffering: Daily Devotionals on Pain, Faith, and Healing
Suffering has a way of forcing us to wrestle with hard questions—about God’s sovereignty, our identity, and how pain fits into His plan. This accident didn’t just change my hand; it changed my faith.
I’ve processed a lot of those struggles through writing, and if you’re walking through something difficult, I invite you to explore these daily devotionals. Each one speaks to a different part of the journey I’m still going through—the pain, the doubt, the healing, and the grace.
Here are four of my favorite posts:
Scars of Grace
We don’t get to choose our scars, but we do get to choose what they remind us of. Are they proof of what’s been lost, or of what God has redeemed? In this post, I wrestle with what it means to bear the marks of suffering while still trusting that grace is at work in the broken places.
No Room for Blame
After the accident, I battled blame—for myself, for J, even for God. This post is about confronting those emotions head-on, learning to reject guilt that isn’t ours to carry, and discovering the freedom that comes when we trust God’s sovereignty over our suffering.
Laws That Lead to Life
For so long, I saw God’s commands as boundaries—things meant to restrict me. But in the midst of this recovery, I began to see them as invitations to true freedom. This reflection explores how obedience and surrender don’t take life away from us—they lead us to it.
Blood on the Doorpost
The night of the first Passover, blood was the sign of salvation. My own blood was spilled that day, but I came to see it as a reflection of a far greater sacrifice. This post is about how my suffering pointed me to Christ’s suffering, and how every wound we bear ultimately finds meaning at the cross.
If you’re struggling through your own season of suffering, my prayer is that the devotionals on this site point you not just to my story, but to the God who is writing yours.
The Healing Process in Photos
Words can only tell part of the story. If you’re curious to see the journey of my hand’s healing and restoration, I’ve put together a photo timeline documenting everything—from surgery to stitches, from swelling to scars, from mangled to mending.
(Warning: These images show graphic post-surgery progress. If you’re squeamish, maybe just take my word for it!)
Stay Connected to My Story
So many of you have followed my journey, and I’m grateful. If you want to keep up with my story as it continues to unfold, enter your email address below to subscribe.
Share Your Story
If you’ve walked through suffering and seen God’s hand, I’d love to hear from you.