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Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Standing outside in the hall, I looked down at the palm of my hand, still feeling his warmth. This hand was a familiar one that I had seen somewhere before—adorned with a simple wedding band, marked with a touch of arthritis, and clothed with lines and creases liken to roads of years traveled—what I recognized were the hands of a mother. A vintage suitcase marked with stamps collected through journeys, my hands have traveled to far away places. Now bursting with riches they can hardly contain, these hands hold a treasure of memories locked deep inside. They held my own mother’s arms that pulled up my trousers, while I felt the warmth of her breath on my neck. They curiously turned the handle to peer at my father while he undressed for the shower—yes, the same hand that stifled a giggle as I ran from his voice. They held their first cup of milk careful to not spill a drop, and later their first glass of Coke as the bubbles jumped from the cup. My hands have waved high in the air, hoping that one would be seen and be heard. They’ve held the hands of fair maidens in the kingdom of friendship. They held the hand of new love, and took another in marriage. They’ve placed coins in the hands of the poor, and received coin when times have been rough. They’ve felt the coldness of death and the warmth of a newborn’s first grasp. They’ve reached out in the dark to give and get love. They’ve pushed the back of a swing that soared through the air, and tied the laces on skates making sure that each leg was tight. They’ve learned to hold on and let go. Then I see a different pair of hands, but unlike mine, they’ve been scarred from the journey. These hands have held his mothers arms as he felt the warmth of her breath on his neck. They’ve been used to stifle a giggle and place coins in the hand of the poor. They’ve held hands of royal princes in the kingdom of God. They’ve reached out in the dark to give love, and bring life. They felt the coldness of death and the power of life. These hands are familiar ones that I can only imagine to see—the hands of a Savior—my Jesus. My little man, Graham is seven years old now. Living and breathing against all the odds. I have seen him so near to death that a team of doctors rushed to his crib late at night, and the same child so near to the glory of God that his face reflected the light. Herein lies the power of life—the hands of a savior—my Jesus. “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5  Labels: Darlene's Articles, Healing
Comments:
Beautiful! We serve an amazing God and see His life-giving power in everything! Thank you for your intimate reflections.
Wow Darlene, I could just see you brushing the cheek of your wee one. And I'll never think of hands the same way again!
Blessings on you!
WOW! What an awesome reminder of what our Jesus has done for all of us. Very powerful and very touching!
THANKS for the reminder this morning!
Oh, Darlene...That is so beautiful. I needed to read this before I had off into the dark world of deceit and anger...
Thank you, my friend... Much love.
This was so beautiful.
As I begin my day I think I will look at my own hands a little different. Thank you Jesus for dying for me!
I loved this post, so rich with imagery. It made me glance down at my own hands! I also want to be the Savior's hands to others today.
This is almost like a long poem; you can tell that your heart is overflowing with thankfulness and wonder.
Darlene,
Your writing is a gift from our God. Herein lies the power of life—the hands of a savior—my Jesus. Beautiful hands. Thank you for gracing us with them. Amen.
Ladies, thanks for your comments. I'm feeling under the weather today as I sit here and read them. Your fellowship is a blessing. :)
Wow Darlene...do you love to make us cry? :)
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I often reminisce of the time I saw the hand of the Lord give life back to my daughter. After her birth we saw her go from dark purple to a creamy peach flesh color and seizures subsided as we knew the hand of God was moving over her body. I rarely think of my own hands except for verses in Proverbs 31 like, "she extends her hands to the distaff". Thank you always for sharing with us. You write so beautifully! Links to this post: << Home
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