The hands that I love are many.
My Mom’s hands scratched my back when I was a little girl. They sleepily rubbed my knees in the middle of nights I would wake up crying with growing pains. They lovingly washed my hair in the kitchen sink on Friday nights.
My Dad’s hands were big and strong. He could cover both of my little girl feet completely in his hands. One hand had a big scar from an ax injury. I used to trace it with my finger.
Tom’s hands literally have muscles where most people aren’t even aware a muscle exist. It’s from the hard work he does for us every day. His hands are some of the most capable hands I know.
Jake’s hands are strong. He’s the best back-rubber in the family. His hands match his character.
Ben’s hands are big like my Dad’s, yet his fingers are long and slender. They make me think of an artist’s hands. Maybe that’s why his camera works so beautifully in his hands.
Zack’s hands still have just a touch of little boy pugginess. Of innocence. When he tries to rub my back, I can feel a bit of clumsiness wrapped in love.
I love all these hands. But they are not perfect. They can only love me for so long.
But there is a pair of hands that are perfect. These hands are more capable. More strong. More creative. These hands are far from clumsy, but full of purpose. A purpose of salvation and life (Psalm 98:1, John 10:28). Of healing and guidance (Mark 7:32, Psalm 139:10). These hands don’t just wash my hair, but my life. These hands have scars in them too, but instead of just holding my little girl feet, the hands of Jesus can hold me in entirety.