I happened to look at my hands today. I mean really look at them. Aside from the fact that they are in desperate need of a manicure, my hands - for just a moment - took on a whole new identity to me today.
These hands have been with me from the day I was born. I know what you're thinking..."Hello, Captain Obvious!". But bear with me for a minute.
These hands have been with me for almost 28 years. They helped me hold on tight to the merry-go-round when I was in 1st grade, and scared to death that I was going to fall off. They reached up for help when I fell down and broke my ankle in the 3rd grade. They've helped me write letters to friends in far away places, and they've helped me master my signature to where I finally felt it was "just perfect". My hands have opened books that have changed my life. They've hugged the necks of people that have held extremely special places in my heart. They've shaken the hands of famous authors, and have covered a sneeze on more than one occasion. They've wiped tears from my face and have played with my sister's hair. These hands have guided the cars that I've driven, opened doors, & helped me master the art of only making one trip into the house from the car, no matter how many bags I needed to carry. These hands are how I talk to my mom. My hands know how to move and sign the way they do, because of her. These hands were held by my dad the many times I wanted to run cross the street and the first time he let me sit in his lap to steer the car... only to later be held by my husband on the day of our wedding as we exchanged our vows.
My hands. They've always done important work for me. They've enabled me to fully engage in whatever it was I needed to do. And now? These same hands... my hands... are the hands of a mother. For some reason, that concept caused me to pause for a moment today. I'm a mom. His mom. And my hands take care of him in ways I never knew they'd have to. They don't question what they have to do, they simply do it, because they are the hands of his mother. They don't look like anything special. In fact, at this present moment, they are dry, cracked, and red from all that they have to go through for various parts of Ethan's care. Proof that I care. Yet regardless of their minor cuts and irritated skin.... he knows my hands. He knows their touch. They know how to hold him, how to comfort, & how to touch him. He knows the work that they do for him. I'm his mom.... he knows my hands.
I know His hands as well. The scars they had to endure to prove His love for me run much deeper. His hands know better than any other, how to hold and how to comfort. And the touch of His hands give healing... they give power. I know the work of His hands. He's my Lord; my God...
And I know His hands.