“It was my hand that laid the foundations of the earth, my right hand that spread out the heavens above. When I call out the stars, they all appear in order.” Isaiah 48:13
There are many types of hands. The kinds that are wrinkly, the kinds that are cracked, and the kinds that are small. Each one represents a life that molds and shapes the time. Every knuckle and nail has a breadth and depth to it.
Hands reflect the personality. My grandfather had cracked and blackened hands, tough and weathered. My sister has paint stained nails and a tiny thumb. My mom has soft veiny hands that sometimes dry out from over washing. My friend has a few burns from hot coffee and tiny fingers.
When I was young I played with my mom’s hand. I would sit in her lap and feel the skin and love in them. They were soft. I loved to just squeeze them and watch the veins pop back up. Hours, I could spend doing this.
I have wondered what God’s hands look like. The hands that formed us out of clay, spinning us into existence. They are probably soft, not calloused. They are big and gentle, gently rubbing our backs and holding us up. He is never reluctant to extend his helping hands.
When hands intertwine there is intimacy. One hand in another, one soul to another.
There was a mirror, it fell and a young girl scooped the glass in her hand out of shame, trying to cover up her mistake. The bits of glass pierced her precious hands and she shuttered with pain and a bigger does of shame.
Then, He took those bloodied hands into his. Covering the holes with His. Best of all, He didn’t let them go. The rough and rigid is smoothed, wounds healed, and life restored.
God takes our hands and heals them. He expresses His intimacy by taking hold of our hands, softly and tenderly. Even when they are not scratched up he takes hold of them because he loves them. More importantly he loves who the hands belong too.