Friday, September 16, 2011
My face may not show my age, but my hands sure do. I look down at my spread-eagle fingers...sigh. Loose skin, protruding veins, and thin bones crisscross the back of my hands like an old worn map. But, the signs of aging is not my concern. My hands remind me of a time in my life when they were used as tools of punishment instead of instruments of love. Now, as one who has changed much and finally matured, my hands are used so differently - giving and loving, touching with Love's tenderness. But, sometimes in quiet moments I look down at my well-worn hands, and memories of past deeds trigger. I wonder if my hands reveal my secrets to those who may also ponder. I know I am forgiven and I have forgiven myself. But, memories still creep into my soul like an unwanted weed that pushes its way up through the soil of my mind when I least expect it.
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Every now and then my oldest son, Michael, will softly brush his fingers over the top of my hands. It's a loving gesture and I so enjoy his touch. One day as he sat next to me caressing my hand he asked me, "Do you know that I love your hands?"
"You do?!" I was genuinely surprised. As I examined my hands, memories twirled in my mind.
"I really do, Mom."
His gentleness and love-filled eyes melted my heart. Hands that were once cruel to him at a young age, Michael now loves. He enjoys the feel of my hands. He looks at them differently now - just as Christians look upon The Cross as an oriflamme of love instead of the torturous, death device that it was. He, obviously, ponders something very different about my hands and the person attached to the hands, than I do. I thank God for that! Such is the power of forgiveness, such is the power of love.
I'd love to hear any "hand" stories you may have.
Because of Him and Unto Him