“Mommy” he says, extending his pinkie finger to my face. “My finger has a owie” Kneeling, I inspect his scabbed knuckle. “Yes you do.” I confirm.
“Yeah. I scraped it on the side of your house when I was riding my bike.”
“Yes you did” I smirk while inspecting the scab.
“Oh good! It’s healing. Your body’s healing itself.” My words trail off as I wonder if I should be giving credit to his body or to God who heals and who makes bodies to heal.
“God is healing my finger.” He corrects. I grin.
God is definatly active in this boy, in my heart, in this room.
1 comment:
You know... i don't know why either hey? We always want to perfect everything, but nothing can ever be perfect...
we somewhere picked up that perfect is the only way something should be done I suppose?
LOL if you think my photo is funny, you should see how Jazz half runs around when I open the jar!! If she could stand my height, she'd have my finger WITH the biscuit!!!
Agreed, it is God. God made our body, he made is heal. God gets the credit - smart boy... ;)
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