Hands

Isn't it curious that through all of these times, a comfort has sustained my every desire? The presence of this comfort has calmed me through my every move.

My mind strives to understand what brings this comfort and strength, this weight that protects and assures me. And as I'm thinking, my eyes sweep the world around me and land focused on my folded hands in my lap. My mind changes gears and focuses on my hands.

The hands I have used to protect myself.
The fingers that have stroked the ivory keys on a piano.
The fingers that have plucked the strings on the guitar.
The fingers that grace the keys of my flute.
The hands that have dried the tears of those who are dear to me.
The fingers that were once entwined with those of an orphan.
The hands that raise high to praise their Creator.

And then my eyes fill with tears, and I realize what the weight that protects, assures, and comforts me is. It is another pair of hands.

The hands that reached down to pull me out of the pit.
The hands that served as a shield when I was ridiculed.
The hands that wipe all of my tears away.
The hands that pull me up onto His lap and hold me.
The hands that bring me comfort, security, and peace.
The hands that will hold mine forever and always.
The hands that will hold my heart for all of eternity.
The hands that are nail-scarred.

Those beautiful, nail-scarred hands.