These are my hands. They are weathered now, not as soft and as supple as they once were. They work hard. They try. They persevere. But not without help, not without worry, not without consequence.
They are marked. Not just by time or by scars, they are marked by a love that I still hold. They are marked by me. They hold my sins, my guilt, they hold my redemption. They hold me – often literally. They tell my story as much as my eyes (and if you look into my eyes you will see sadness, you’ll see joy, you’ll see hope; but that’s not the story for today). Today is about my hands.
I talk with my hands, but more I speak through my hands (at times). Whether I’m pretending to shake someone I want to get a message through (you know who you are!), whether I’m praying, whether I’m trying to build something that shows the beauty of this world beyond what a mere man can do.
My hands are a gift. As much as the soil that I sometimes have to tend, the structures that I have to mend. My hands resonate with the knowledge that everything I do calls back to the god that gave me breath.
My hands have held my three children. My hands have broken ties. Held the hands of the one I love, clutched together as I’ve cried through the night.
What is the work of your hands? What do you do that glorifies your existence here?
What story do your hands tell?
A story of sacrifice? Of working hard? Or are they Porcelain, Beautiful and Pristine, away from tragedy or loss? I think that would be the most tragic of all. I don’t have beautiful hands. (I have finally learned how to work with them.) Hands I’ve held onto others and also let go.
“Make it your in ambition to lead a quiet life, working with your hands, minding your own business.”
~ 1 Thessalonians 4:11
I am not quiet. At least not when around people. I am quiet in my moments alone. When I reflect. I do work with my hands. As a sacrifice and a praise to a power higher than myself. Today I am five months into a new journey. A journey not just of my soul, but also my mind and my body. My hands – using them to give back to others.
Nice post! My hands too have their own story from the years. A story of loved one they have held, and loved ones that have slipped through my fingers like the sands of a beautiful beach. Times of such joy they would shake. Times of great misery that sadness would flow from my heart to my fingers. I would hold them to the sky begging to know "Why"... But today they mostly hold feelings of love and joy. As my loved ones huddle around me like a protective force, my hands would... (to be continued?)
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