When I was three years old, I fell on a rough cement sidewalk and scraped my knee badly. By the next day, a thick, dark scab had formed over the wound. My parents took me to the lake, where my father was working on his boat, and when they saw the scab, they warned me not to touch it. My Band‑Aid had fallen off—probably during my bath—so the scab was exposed, tempting, and impossible for a curious child to ignore.
I waited until no one was looking and began picking at the edge. Suddenly, most of the scab lifted away, still attached only at the bottom. Underneath were bright red and white spots scattered across the wet yellow skin. Alarmed, I pressed the scab back into place. It stuck, thankfully, hiding what I had done.
Not wanting to be scolded for disobeying, I silently asked God—very seriously—to please make the scab and the injury beneath it disappear.
Then I went back to playing.
Every few minutes, I glanced down at my knee. Each time, the scab was smaller than before. It wasn’t imagination. It was visibly shrinking. Finally, it was just a tiny brown dot. And then, on the next look, it was gone.
Normally, after a wound like that, my skin would stay pink for a day or two. But this time there was nothing—no scab, no scar, no discoloration. Just smooth, perfect baby skin, as if the injury had never happened.
Curious, I asked my mother how long we had been at the lake.
“Oh, about an hour,” she said.
In less than an hour, the wound had gone from raw and bloody to completely healed. I thanked God over and over, and the whole experience became our little secret. I never told anyone—until now.