It was under an old Banyan tree on the school playground in Hawai`i that I first met Timmy. I was an elementary school teacher and he was a gregarious five-year-old. A special friendship between us began to evolve.
One day in mid-August, Timmy's teacher came running into the school office with him. He was sobbing, and she was nearly hysterical. The bathroom door had slammed on his finger, causing severe bleeding. The school bus driver rushed them to the Emergency Room.
Minutes later, the doctor called, asking if we had found the fingertip, as there was a small chance to save it. Pulling myself out of a daze, I ran to the bathroom, found it, and drove it to the hospital.
The doctor was waiting, but the fingertip had already turned blue. It was too late. With a sinking heart, I asked to see Timmy.
He was lying on a gurney, his chest still heaving from sobs. I felt helpless. Then, an idea came to me. I whispered, "Timmy, did you know geckos grow their tails back? Little boys can grow their fingers back too."
His eyes grew wide. "They can?"
"Yep!" I said. "Close your eyes and I'll show you." I wanted to teach him the ancient Hawaiian methods of visual imagery and affirmations I had learned from kupunas (elders).
As he closed his eyes, I guided him: "Inside your head, you have a little voice. Use it to tell your finger how much you love and need it. Tell it you need it to dial the phone, write sentences, and point at things. Now say, 'Grow for me, finger. I love you and I need you.'"
After a moment, he opened his eyes, his tear-stained face glowing. I told him to do this whenever he thought of it during the day.
As I was leaving, I realized the adults around him might discourage this belief. I returned to his bedside. "Timmy, your finger will be perfectly fine. Let's wait until it's completely healed before we tell anyone about this special technique."
"Okay," he replied.
A few days later, Timmy returned to school with a large bandage. With a grin, he whispered, "I'm talking to my finger every day, wishing it well, and it's listening to me."
Weeks later, he sprinted to me with joyful energy, proudly showing his healing finger under the bandage. "See? It's growing back really good!"
A year later, Timmy came to say goodbye before moving away. His finger was completely healed—round, padded, with only a fine hairline scar.
Timmy remains in my heart as a constant reminder of the possibility of miracles. From him, I learned to challenge thoughts of failure. He inspires me to reach beyond accepted knowledge and remember the kupuna wisdom: all things are possible if you truly believe.