Why we're called Broken Hand Creations

I wish I could say,  "I'll never forget that phone call." But I can't. I don't remember it. I'm not even sure who called me. What I do remember: My sister picks me up. The ride up the hill to the hospital is tense and silent. I walk into the ER and see Caleb lying there, shock, fear, anger, and disbelief clamor in his eyes. I go to him. He says something so unexpected: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for doing this to you. 

 I do my best to assure him: it's going to be ok. 

We're airlifted in a small plane to the nearest city with a trauma/hand surgeon.  I sit in a jump seat clutching hope, and a Styrofoam cup with Caleb's shredded fingers on ice.

I bravely stand next to Caleb's bed while the surgeon lays out the tragic remains -it was a wood planer- and explains why they can't be reattached. There's not a lot of blood, Caleb is not a big bleeder. I faint on the way to the bathroom. 

We have been eking out a meagre living in the middle of the Navajo Nation, Chinle, where I was raised. Being volunteer Bible teachers doesn't leave much time for making money. Within a week, Caleb is back up on the platform of our church, preaching to the congregation. He still has his stiches in. Physical therapy is grueling- a 45 minute drive one way, three times a week- and painful. But Caleb is determined. Workman's comp is running out. Fast. We need to start making money. My dad asks Caleb if he'd like to learn to silversmith. In his decades of experience as a jeweler, my dad has taught quite a few people the craft. Caleb is a quick study, the cleanest work my dad has ever seen. 

That was over 15 years ago. Since then, Caleb has evolved, both as an artist, and as a man. Broken Hand Creations doesn't define him. Rather, it is an homage to the courage, resilience, fortitude, adaptability, and triumph that were forged in him from the experience.  

And every piece of jewelry Caleb makes carries that story.  He's honored to share it with you.