The teakettle hit the bottom of the kitchen sink with a crash as I jerked my hand away from the mass of steam. I looked at my right hand to assess the damage and saw that the top layer of skin was grotesquely shriveled. "Sarah," I moaned from the top of the stairs. I heard a clatter as my sister jumped from bed and appeared bleary-eyed at the bottom of the stairs. "What's wrong?" she asked in a worried tone. "I burned my hand. Come help me," I said. Sarah leaped up the stairs two at a time. Her face turned white when she glanced into the bowl of ice water where I had plunged my injured hand. The skin looked like a layer of wax.

The accident had occurred 30 minutes earlier while I was making French toast. I realized halfway through the project that I had turned on the wrong burner, and a dry teakettle sat on the hot burner. I quickly removed the kettle from the stove, carried it to the sink, and turned on the cold water. I allowed the water to run into the spout. The water reacted to the hot metal, instantly producing steam that blew the lid off the kettle. My right hand, which was grasping the handle of the kettle, received a severe steam burn.

Sarah called our doctor who suggested that I immediately go to the urgent care clinic. Because I couldn't drive with my hand in a bowl, my friend, Monica, drove me to the clinic. On the way to the clinic, Monica pulled away from a stoplight a little too quickly, spilling the bowl's contents in my lap. I arrived at urgent care wet and looking like I'd had an accident (the kind that didn't involve my hand). By this time, my hand was throbbing.

We waited for 45 minutes. Finally, a nurse with long, frizzy, blonde hair called my name. "They call me 'Mean Lizzy,'" the nurse said with a cackle. I sighed. "Mean Lizzy" asked me how I had received the burn and listened as I told my story. Presently, the doctor entered and examined my hand. He diagnosed me with first and second-degree burns on most of the top of my hand. I gulped back tears as "Mean Lizzy" cut away the dead layers of skin with scissors. My throbbing hand felt like it was on fire. She applied an antibiotic cream and wrapped my hand in gauze. "Guess you won't be having any tea for awhile," she said, emphasizing the word tea. Then she laughed, amused by her own joke. I was anxious to escape "Mean Lizzy," but before I left, she advised me to take it easy for a couple days.

The accident happened on a Tuesday, and I was scheduled to go to camp on Friday. After learning that a certified nurse would be at the camp, my family physician said I could attend camp as planned. I arrived at camp with my red, blistered hand wrapped in gauze. The camp nurse gasped the first time she saw the burn.

Each morning and evening while I was at camp, I trudged to the nurse's cabin where she redressed my hand. Fellow campers prayed that my hand would heal quickly. By Wednesday of that week, the dead skin had fallen off and a new layer of skin had grown, and I no longer had to wear bandages. I was amazed by how quickly the new skin grew. The skin, although red, was as soft as a baby's, and fellow campers delighted in touching it.

When I returned home and saw my physician, she couldn't believe how fast my hand had healed. She said the burn probably wouldn't even scar my hand. Now, a year and a half later, the only reminder of the burn is a slight discoloration of skin. I have to look closely to even see the scar. I am astonished at God's healing touch.

Burning my hand and seeing God restore it taught me about his amazing power to heal. And he not only has the ability to heal physical ailments, but he also specializes in healing emotional wounds. He has the power to miraculously heal the deepest hurt or pain.

Although true healing takes time and often a scar remains, God's healing is so complete that he can produce great joy in one's life in spite of pain. He is the great physician of both the body and the soul.