Her hands tell a story. A story that only she can tell. A story filled with endless hours of labour and caring, fixing and loving, cleaning and giving.
I remember touching her hands as a child and thinking her hands were perfect in spite of her complaints of roughness and chewed nails and cracked finger tips. In time, she let those nails grow, but not too long to stop her work from being done. In time, the roughness catalyzed the wrinkles that no dose of lotions could smooth away. The lines of time criss-crossing their story, etching the moments of her life.
Sometimes I study my own hands and see glimpses of hers in them. The story lines becoming more visible and me wondering when they first began. Was it with the turning of a birthday when a sense of knowing replaced that insecure, finding herself girl? Was it with the birth of the third girl babe adding lengthy nights and early mornings to a continuous routine? Or maybe it was just a deep longing to see a piece of myself in the woman who gave, sacrificed, herself for me?
His hands. Broken and pierced on my behalf. Carrying the cross to the top of the hill to be the love sacrifice for me. His hands that healed and spread balm for the wounded, that reached for the teary and the desolate. His hands that beckoned the lost and drew near the neglected.
Can my hands be like His? Can I make the effort to carry my cross? Can I soothe the hurts and pains that the fallen world serves out? Can I hold the hand of the lost and the forgotten?
Can my hands bring a sacrifice?
Can my hands be a sacrifice?