Hands that are made calloused from working on used cars, old houses, cedar canoes; hands that pound in tent pegs and light gas grills and coax boat motors to life; hands that spend most of their time scratching at paperwork, even though that isn't the first love; hands that are ever ready to help someone in need, that help strangers broken-down on the side of the highway, that pass out Communion bread and cups; hands that hunt-and-peck in sweet stilted rhythm for important e-mails or messages of encouragement; hands that tremble with joy when they cradle newborns' heads, that stroke hair and pat shoulders.
They are hands of love.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that smooth little girls' hair and fears when Mama and Daddy are gone; hands that are quick and sure when playing dominoes with lonely teenagers; hands that stroke cats' backs and ruffle dogs' ears; hands that turn and knead bread dough in memorized rhythm; hands that can and jam and preserve for the winter; hands that plant gardens and pull weeds; hands that pick apples and blueberries and strawberries and raspberries at frightening speeds; hands that distribute tissues; hands that pat shoulders and are firm in the middle of the back whilst hugging; hands that hold frightened old ladies' hands with patience.
They are hands of mercy.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that balance checkbooks; hands that pick up sticks and dead limbs and drag them to the compost pile; hands that fly through e-mails and letters and bills; hands that prep and paint greasy kitchen cupboards; hands that compile and edit recipes with dizzying deftness; hands that clean up after ill pets and children without complaint, that stroke feverish foreheads without fear; hands that rub backs and pat hands; hands that set tables and clean kitchen floors and dust the house over and over and over; hands that split under the nails from winter-dryness and over-much dishwashing; hands that tease and tickle, but always in affection; hands that are worn soft by work and age; hands that scratch out math equations and point out steps; hands that change sheets and clean bathrooms and never complain.
They are hands of faith.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are as quick on a keyboard as they are with houseframes; hands that love book pages, and grip pens with joy; hands that wrap around tea, and coffee, and hard concepts; hands with dirt under the nails, that don't shrink from labor and struggle; hands that tap on the tabletop with unplanned excitement; hands that pet puppies, and tease little sisters; hands that are steady, and bracing, and safe; hands that do whatever task is set to them; hands that fairly quiver with energy and vitality and life.
They are hands of hope.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that stroke orphans' faces, and support widows; hands that stab accusation at the smug and self-righteous; hands that gesture to the world to make word pictures, to get the point across; hands that reach down to curl into the earth, to haul fishnets, to work in wood; hands that smooth away fevers, and frightful contagious diseases, and paralysis, and demons; hands that wield whips and crash tables to the floor while purifying the house of God; hands that plead with the beloved City to repent, to turn, to be healed; hands that don't rise in their own defense against false allegations; hands that stretch out in agony and allow themselves to be pierced; hands that are strong enough to die.
They are the hands of God.
And somehow, they are reflected in all the others . . .
Excellent.
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