Several years ago, I was at one of our spiritual school’s establishments, where I was helping two other colleagues renovate the living quarters. It was a Tuesday; we were all up early in the morning and getting ready to divide up the tasks for the day. I started working on a carpentry machine where I had to make slats for door frames. At one point, I thought I heard someone calling my name. Then I heard a loud “clang” and immediately realised that what had stopped the machine was my finger!
I don’t know when I managed to pull my hand away, but I know I saw my severed phalanx dangling, held only by a small piece of skin. I immediately thought of Grieg; I felt as if he knew what was happening to me. I took a close look at my finger, assessing the situation, then, clutching it in my palm, I went outside and walked quickly to the courtyard, where, coincidentally, a colleague was sitting in a car. He came over to me and asked what had happened, as he too had heard a strange noise coming from the machine. My colleague immediately started the car, and on the road, I intuitively felt that I had to go to the military hospital. I don’t know why there and not somewhere else, but that’s when this feeling appeared clearly and strongly in my consciousness.
The wound was starting to bleed. I squeezed the pieces of my finger into the handkerchief I was holding and tried to control my inner state. I reached the emergency room. My finger was starting to contract and hurt more and more. It was a dull, excruciating pain. I had an X-ray. Then I was sent from one floor to another, to orthopaedics, neurology, surgery, until, in a surgery where I had arrived at some point, I met a doctor with whom I felt an extraordinary affinity. We looked each other in the eye for a few seconds, then he asked me to sit down on a chair so he could operate, while he assessed both the X-ray and my injured finger.
When I opened the handkerchief and he saw the entire phalanx of my finger severed, he told me bluntly that it had to be amputated urgently and was about to administer a local anaesthetic. He prepared his syringe. Despite the situation, I remained calm. I begged him not to amputate my finger, but to stitch it back on if possible. The doctor told me that it was impossible for the finger to heal and that it would inevitably turn grey in a few hours, that gangrene would spread to the palm and that more than one phalanx would then have to be amputated. I asked him calmly if he believed in God!
He replied that he did, but that even God, in this case, could do nothing but amputate the severed part. I asked him again to leave my finger intact and stitch it back together, to put in stitches and do whatever he wanted, but not to amputate it, because I believed in God and knew that the finger would heal. I was convinced of this in my heart of hearts. The doctor had no choice but to accept it.
He looked at me with great admiration. He thought for a moment, then said: “All right, we’ll glue it back on and stitch it up, but come and see me first thing tomorrow morning. If the dry scab doesn’t appear on the joint, if it swells, blackens and festers, we’ll have no choice but to amputate immediately. If, on the other hand, God helps you as you say – and I don’t see how that could happen – and if it doesn’t swell, if it becomes crusty and the colour remains pink, we’ll see what we have to do.” He then stitched the phalanx back in place and we said goodbye until the next morning.
We went home, intending to stop by Grieg’s to tell him about the stupid thing I had done that day. I was ashamed and at the same time felt that he was the only one who could help me. We entered the building where Grieg lived and walked to the front door of his flat, preparing to ring the bell. But we didn’t get the chance to do so, because Grieg proved to me once again that he knew exactly what had happened to me. He suddenly opened the door and asked me directly, looking at my bandaged hand, “What happened to your little hand?” I replied, blushing, “I cut my finger, actually the phalanx of my middle finger, while working on the planer.”
Ooooffffffffffff, Grieg let out a very long sigh, shaking his head, as if he were anticipating a series of unintended consequences that he would have to deal with from that moment on. He knew from the outset what I was going to ask. He looked kindly into my eyes and said only this: “You must operate with the colour green and project it onto the injured area.” Then, without another word, he went into the house, slamming the door behind him.
I went back to my room and began to visualise the subtle green current which, surprisingly to me, now appeared as a vivid and clear hue on the screen of my inner vision, as if I were looking at the green halo of a projector shining in my head.
I remained motionless for several hours without feeling the slightest discomfort. My finger no longer hurt at all, and I could feel the cells of the two pieces of the stitched finger intertwining and dividing, sticking together and rebuilding the missing part. I dreamt of Grieg that night. He came to me and touched my injured finger with his hand, from the root of my palm to the tip of my fingernail, then he looked at me and told me that everything would be fine and that I shouldn’t worry. He strengthened my faith and then disappeared.
The next morning at 7 o’clock, I heard someone knocking at the door. It was my car companion, who had come to pick me up and take me to the hospital for a check-up. When we arrived, the doctor immediately asked me if I was in pain, if I was feeling any contractions or twinges in the severed end, etc. However, he was stunned when he opened the bandage and saw that my finger was pink, had a thick, healthy scab all around it, was not swollen at all, and, to top it all off, I could feel the touch of his finger on the end of the severed phalanx. The doctor looked at me in amazement and couldn’t believe it. It was something he had never seen before in his entire career as a surgeon. He was over 45 years old and an experienced doctor. He looked at me, silent and perplexed, but happy with such a success, which he could not rationally understand, but which he appreciated. He gave me a prescription for an ointment and an antibiotic for the infection, then told me to come back in a week to have my stitches removed, if everything went as well as expected.
My finger recovered so well that after two weeks I could move my severed phalanx and feel even the slightest touch on its entire surface, just like a healthy finger. Today, as I recount this story, I have a hard time finding any trace of injury on that finger!
Thank you, Lord God, for all the help, visible and invisible, that you give us every moment, and for this godly being that you have given us as our Spiritual Guide Grieg.
With endless gratitude,