Hands.

You guys. 

Hands are amazing. 

I went to clean my church the other day, and I had the opportunity to reflect and think on all that has happened these past few weeks as I was cleaning. I caught a glimpse of my hands in the mirror as I was wiping down the counters. They were red and rough. They are small. And I felt the sting of shame. I felt ashamed of these little hands I have. Ashamed that they were not big and strong. Ashamed that they were not soft and gentle. They did not look capable of doing all the things that I hope they will do. With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I suddenly felt very inadequate.

They do not look like the hands of a mighty servant of God. They do not look like the hands of a warrior. They do not look like the hands of a beautiful pianist. They do not look like the hands of a skilled potter. They do not look like the hands of a carpenter.

They look like the hands of Ellie Anderson. Small, inexperienced, and well worn. 

I just stared down at my hands. These little hands. I could not even begin to tell you all the things I have done with them. They've made cards for my siblings, baked cinnamon rolls for a dear friend, scrubbed countless tiles, folded thousands of clothes, cut out hundreds of paper hearts, drawn many faces, and turned thousands upon thousands of pages. And so much more than that.

People have incredible hands, you guys. For reals. Just look at all the things people can do with them!

Aah. It's amazing. Hands are so important to each of us. These hands of mine are so crucial to my life. They are so important. These fingers. These palms.

And palms. The lines they have. I have thought a lot about the lines we have. About the wrinkles we gain. I have a very special place in my heart for the elderly. And I LOVE their hands. Their lines tell a story. When you look at all the lines on their palms, it seems that they all run together to form their pulsing life. Their accomplishments and joys and failures. It all seems to be right there. In the palm of their hand. . .

I want to see God's hands.

I want to feel them.

To trace their lines with my finger.

To feel of His life. 

To sense what He's seen and done.

I want to see God's hands.

To place my little hand in His.

To hold His hand.

To understand.

I want to see God's Hands.

. . .And yet, I have seen them.

"A story is told that during the bombing of a city in World War II, a large statue of Jesus Christ was severely damaged. When the townspeople found the statue among the rubble, they mourned because it had been a beloved symbol of their faith and of God’s presence in their lives.

Experts were able to repair most of the statue, but its hands had been damaged so severely that they could not be restored. Some suggested that they hire a sculptor to make new hands, but others wanted to leave it as it was—a permanent reminder of the tragedy of war. Ultimately, the statue remained without hands. However, the people of the city added on the base of the statue of Jesus Christ a sign with these words: 'You are my hands.'"[1]

How powerful that is!!

"As we emulate His perfect example, our hands can become His hands; our eyes, His eyes; our heart, His heart."[1]

I have seen His hands. 

And it's through people. These Christlike people that I have in my life. What beautiful hands they are. 

Think about it. 

You are His hands. 

You, the person reading this in this very moment, are His hands. 

Just think about it!

Let the majesty of that truth sink in. 

Have a beautiful day, my friends. Appreciate your hands a little more, alright? :)