Lorraine closed the car door on her finger one morning this summer. She opened the door immediately to undo or at least stop what she had done. There was no undoing it. We drove to work, and she tried to soldier on. She took a painkiller and applied pressure but finally made her own appointment at the medical clinic and drove herself the three minutes it took to get there from work.

Our primary care doctor was not in, so another doctor saw her. He said it looked bad. I think she already knew that. He said to get stitches she would have to go to immediate care in the next town. They would x-ray it, too. Apparently that particular medical clinic didn’t do stitches.

Lorraine came back to work, and I drove her to the second clinic.

We found the right department: Urgent care.

The first person to see her finger, not sure if she was a nurse or an aide or an assistant, asked what happened. Lorraine explained and showed her the finger. She looked at the finger and said it looked bad.

The doctor came in and agreed that it looked bad. He said that they would be recording our time together to make reporting easier. He would do the stitches after an x-ray. The doctor expressed surprise that a car door could do such damage. He was pretty sure there was no fracture, but the tech escorted her down the hall and took the pictures. Lorraine came back and the doctor did the stitches—four on front and three back of the finger, her middle figure, what, we learned, some in the medical field call “the driver’s finger.”

That person who saw Lorraine agreed with the doctor that she would need to see an orthopedic doctor. She showed us how to wrap the finger and put a brace around it. They made an appointment for us at another clinic a little farther away, along with a follow-up appointment with them.

The day before the scheduled appointment with the orthopedist, his office called and said that he had to cancel because this doctor didn’t work on fingers.

When we went back for her follow-up appointment, the clinic people seemed upset with us that we had cancelled. We explained that the doctor didn’t work on fingers. “Why did you make the appointment with him?” they asked. We didn’t, we replied, you did.

They left the room.

When they came back, they explained that the appointment-making screen in their software allowed them to pick an orthopedic doctor, but it did not show their specialties or limitations. They made a new appointment with a different doctor who, they assured us, definitely would treat a finger—Lorraine’s in particular.

Lorraine had good sessions with the doctor and physical therapy for her finger, and I am happy to report that it’s as good as new.

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing;

heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled. Psalm 6:2

In our fallen world, I think that we are prone to fall under the same specialization limitations with our souls as with our injured physical bodies.

We are adept at recognizing and handling certain sin injuries. We specialize in seeing the bad in others, offering counsel to them, praying with them. In the comfort of our narrowed perspective, we easily overlook the sin that is closer to us than any other person can ever be. In that private room where only we and God can go, we leave quickly, closing the door behind us and forgetting the treatment for our souls, only to go on dishing out wisdom and insight we think other sinners need. May each of us find our own Nathan, and may he be strong enough to say, “You are the man.”

We can often look at a person and see that something has happened and it’s bad. Or at first glance it doesn’t seem too bad, and then the x-ray comes back and there’s a fracture. Or maybe we see a problem but are not able to apply the sutures to stop the bleeding and help it begin to heal. We often think we know the answer and can ably treat the poor souls around us. But then there’s the problem of our own, you know, the S word. Sin. Or the D word. Death.

I want a doctor who specializes in everything, one who knows all my bones and muscles, one who knows every one of my organs, my blood and how my brain works, all my nerves and their ends. He makes house calls and when I have to go to his office, I find him there. And he doesn’t call what he does “practice.” There is no specialization needed. No trips to multiple locations. No insurance authorization. Jesus is more than enough. I want God!

Something has happened and it’s bad. But something else has happened that is good, and his good when applied to our bad wins every time. Let this good news go out to all. Praise him. Bless him. Live and walk today with him.

Let this be recorded for a generation to come,
    so that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord:
that he looked down from his holy height;
    from heaven the Lord looked at the earth,
to hear the groans of the prisoners,
    to set free those who were doomed to die,
that they may declare in Zion the name of the Lord,
    and in Jerusalem his praise,
when peoples gather together,
    and kingdoms, to worship the Lord.

Psalm 102:18-22