In These Hands

In these hands I have held the world; my world. These hands are rough and calloused, but my heart is tender and real. I have held both of my children so close with these hands. Wiped away the tears filled with fear, again and again. Lifted their little hearts from the ground. I have worked these hands, and my heart, to the point where the indelible wounds are plain to see. I have planted seeds with these hands, and reaped the harvest of life. I have caressed the skin of an angel with these hands. I have also touched the face of the devil with those same hands. I have used these tired, worn hands to push back the pain, and when necessary, to dish out more pain than is necessary. I have bloodied these hands in battle, and washed them in a river of forgiveness. I have held these hands out for a feast of hope, only to receive a mere morsel. Can I sustain myself with such a mere morsel? Can I feed five thousand with that? I will serve others with that hope before I serve myself. Isn’t that what we are to do? These hands will lift up those fallen, when I have that ability, until I have fallen for the last time.

In these hands I have held those who are sick, scared, and in a fight for their lives. I have reached into a mangled car and held a crying child, bloodied and scared, then reached in and held the hand of her mother. I have fought fire with these hands, and fought fires in my soul with these hands. I have bandaged the bloody, and held the weary. These hands have scaled countless peaks and reached the summit of my dreams, time and again. I have used these hands to throw the ball back and forth between a father and son. I have held a crying daughter and rocked her to sleep. I have built a life with these hands. The foundation as solid as any out there. I have cherished with these hands and worshiped with these hands. I have built this life with these hands. I have crawled on these hands, and fallen on these hands.

I have held the love of my life in these hands, cherished each embrace. I have wiped away the tears of joy, hurt, and anger, running down her face. I have held her in these hands and cried with her, laughed with her, and held her just for the sake of doing so. I have reached across the tent on a cool moonlit night, and touched her soft hair. In these hands I have held the heart of an angel, and held it close to mine. In these hands I have moved far away and created a life of happiness and joy. A life of adventure and spirit. I have used these hands to both cause immense pain in my enemies, and immense joy in those I love. I have held onto the rock of life with these hands. Scaled walls which seemed insurmountable.

All the wear and weariness on these hands has lead me to where I am. To a place of “insurmountable walls” built around the heart of the one true love that God gave me. Incapable of tearing down the walls built by anger, hate, and unforgiveness, with bitterness as mortar. Incapable of pushing off, casting away when my strength wanes and I should be preserving who I am. These hands don’t know how to quit, nor does my soul. Yet I find these hands growing more and more weary. Tired from the fight. Bruised like my heart, bloodied knuckles. These hands are unable to hold what I love. Unable to embrace what was at one time magnificent and real. These hands are constantly held together in prayer, praying for peace. The pain pouring from my heart cannot be held back with these hands. Like a damn cracked and failing, bursting at the seams, unable to hold what is inside. These hands cannot hold the pain or keep it from pouring out. The hands that are used to fight the battles of my life are suddenly sunken and hanging by my side. Defeat is evident, yet my will to fight is still in there somewhere. The hands that have punched and delivered pain in the past, now strum the strings on an instrument that brings me peace..if only for a brief moment. These hands have worked a lifetime to build the world I envisioned. I have tried to hold it all together, plug the leaks, but the leaks are many and my fingers are few. The muscles in my hands, in my heart, and in my soul grow weak. I look to the sky and ask “why”? I beg for mercy, relief from the pain. This pain is inhumane and insurmountable, yet I cannot use these hands to push away. To turn and walk off into the sunrise of a better tomorrow. These hands know only how to hold on. I pray that God will give me the strength to push off and set sail into tomorrow. To let go of that which continually hurts me. To release me from that which does not want me. I clasp these hands together and ask that guidance be delivered. Use these hands to make someone out there better. To help! These are helping hands and that is all I know.