The Story of My Hands

Take a good look at your hands.  Your fingers were not always that long.  Your skin may have been a little thicker and tighter.  There may have been less scars and certainly there was more strength.  Do you ever wonder, however, what your hands would say if they were to tell their story?  Perhaps it would go something like this:

Ah, I still remember the first time I could wiggle those fingers.  I would reach for that cold bottle that would satisfy your hunger.  I would hold it steady as the nourishment fed that little body.  The feel of cold steel beneath my grip has not faded from my memory.  I remember those bars in the school yard.  I would try so hard to hang on but eventually would lose my grip.  Until one day, blistered and calloused as I was, I made it across without letting go.  With great joy I clapped and felt the pride inside your heart.  Then there was the leather beneath my fingers as I tightly gripped the handle bars of your bike.  I worked so hard to keep it steady and steer it in the right direction so that you would never go off course.  I did the same years later when the handle bars were replaced by the steering wheel of a car.  I can still see the place where the indent from the pencil was made from writing all those papers.  It was worth it though to see the pride on your face when you put on that cap and gown.  It wasn’t long after that the soft fabric of a beautiful gown was soothing to my touch.  The love in your heart was so great that I could feel it in my fingertips even as I shakily held that fragrant bouquet of flowers.  What joy when that gorgeous ring was slipped on my finger.  But my favorite memory in our story was the feel of small fingers wrapped up in my own palm.

Then everything changed.  We became busy.  It was always a rush of preparing food, doing chores, driving, shopping, lifting and tucking in at night.  I was always weary and my skin was being stretched more every day.  Aches and pains began to make it difficult to do the things we used to do.  Jars were hard to open.  Clothes took longer to fold.  Frankly, with thin skin and purple veins, I no longer felt pretty anymore.  There was still joy, however.  I found it beneath the soft pages of a book.  Each day I longed to turn those pages as you read the story of another set of hands.

Like me, these hands were not pretty either.  In fact, they were terribly scarred and bruised.  But they were strong!  They were a carpenter’s hands and what a story His hands would tell…..  Ah, I still remember the first time I formed those fingers in the secret place.  Eventually I knew they would reach for my love to satisfy their hunger.  I would pour it into her heart as the nourishment fed that soul.  But, the sting of sin beneath my grip has not faded from my memory.  I remember the darkness that tore us apart.  I would try so hard to hang on but eventually would lose my grip.  Until one day, scarred and bruised as I was, I declared “It is finished.” The great chasm of death between us was conquered.  With great joy I rose and felt the pride inside my Father’s heart.  Then we became busy.   I tightly gripped the handle bars of your life.  I worked so hard to keep it steady and steer it in the right direction so that you would never go off course.  I beckoned you to follow me as I showed you the way.  I never laid down the pen as I continued writing your story.  You saw the struggle.  You saw the shame.  You felt the despair.  But I was writing the story of why I came.  I came to clothe you in a robe of righteousness and with My hands I tenderly caress your heart and call you My beloved.  The love in my heart is so great that you can feel it even as I place My Spirit inside of you.

My strong and mighty hands gladly take your weak and frail hands.  With them you pray, serve, worship and seek while My hands hold you, equip you and strengthen you.  My hands heal your aches and pains, bind up your wounds and soothe any hurts.  My hands were beaten, bruised and ripped apart by nails. You see, the scars on My hands make your hands beautiful once again.

You may think your hands are your own, but the truth is -you are My hands. I will never let go of you and one day, these hands will wrap yours up in love and light and goodness and truth and keep your steps steady as you go home.  What joy when that gorgeous crown is placed on your head.  But my favorite part in our story has not yet come to pass.

You see the story of My hands is really about writing the story of your hands.

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