Hands

I looked at my mother’s hands the other day. I watched how she took crayons and drew scribbles on paper and then took those shapes and made silly faces or happy scenes of ducks or dogs or smiling stars. Parker snickered at her pictures and Hunter chimed in with a “let me do it.” A piece of paper and wax crayons made a moment for my children that they may not remember. But I will remember it. I will remember the innocent play of Fisher Price toys. I will remember the simple comment of “you want to talk about it?” as I banged on the piano after a particularly bad day. I will remember the times she held me as my heart had been broken or when the weight of the world seemed to bear down on me.
My father’s hands may look different, but they show the same incredible love as my mother‘s. They quickly grab up Parker, my two-year-old, as he shouts, “Paw Paw!” Hunter, my six-year-old, often gives my dad a big “high five” after he reads a book with him. I can almost feel the smoothness of my father’s hands when he would hold my hand in church, playing with my fingers, measuring the size of my hand against his. No matter how old I get, his hands make mine seem tiny and weak, yet protected by his strength. They are connected to a tender heart, something I inherited from him, easily moved to laughter and tears.
Since I have been blessed with the role of being a parent, I often reflect on how my parents did what they did. I always knew I wanted to have children; I had no idea how challenging, difficult, yet joyous being a parent is. I sometimes wonder how any parent does what he or she does. After I became a single parent, I met other single parents who have lives that I am not envious of. In fact, these parents are ones who survive seemingly on their own with no help from any relative.
As Mother’s Day and Father’s Day approaches, I look at the hands who helped shape me into who I am today. Of course, sometimes those hands meant a swift pop to remind me who was in charge. I remember the hands who held on the back of my bike, keeping it steady so I could ride without training wheels. I remember the hands that helped me be a bit blonder each year. I remember those hands that stroked my hair when I was crying or hugged my shoulders out of sheer love. I recall the hands cooking meals, washing clothes, and painting bedrooms. I recall the hands that have paid for cars, clothes, and college tuition. Those hands have sewn curtains, dresses, and much-loved stuffed animals. Those hands have given me away, but never went away. Those hands have held me, both in their arms and in sincere prayer.
I know how much I love my children. My hands are used to shape who they are. I have a good idea about how much my parents love my children, too, as shown by their sacrifices for them as well as their general demeanor whenever they are with Hunter and Parker. Even though I love my family greatly, how much more does God love us! I realize I am sinful and selfish. He is blameless and perfect. His love is so much greater and higher than mine.
So I started looking at my Father’s hands. Isaiah 40:12 in The Message Bible says, “Who has scooped up the ocean in His two hands, or measured the sky between his thumb and little finger.” What incredible power God has! His hands are majestic and mighty. They make me feel very protected. They make me feel invincible, since not only is He incredibly strong, He believes in me. He doesn’t just think I’m fun to have around, or someone who can serve His needs. Instead, He wants me to be with Him. He is straining to reach me. He believes I can do all things through Him who will give me strength--the same strength that is able to hold the ocean in His hands.
Not only does His hands show his power, but they also show his incredible love for me. In Isaiah 49:16 in The Message, He says, “I’ve written your names on the backs of my hands.” The Creator of the Universe has MY name written on the back of His hands, in plain view, and on His mind. Incredible!
I love my parents dearly. I cannot express in words what they mean to me. Some of you may have parents who are no longer with you. Some of you may have never had a close relationship with your parents. Whatever your case with your parents, know that there is One who is the “father to the fatherless.” Know that nothing, absolutely nothing, can separate you from the love of God. No matter what this world brings us, be it death, separation, sickness, and a host of other struggles, God still remains. He lasts. It is such a comfort to know that the One who loves me without condition doesn’t change. He doesn’t grow old or give out or simply become someone else.
God gave me two incredible people as parents. As I was growing up, I would sometimes spend the night with a friend. I was always glad to come home to my parents. My friends would have nice parents, but they weren’t my parents. Sometimes my parents are quirky, weird, and even annoying, but I am those things, too. I am proud and thankful that they are my parents because I wouldn’t be the same without them.
For my parents, I put my hands together and clap in praise of a job well done. For my God, I raise my hands in praise, empty and worthless, but reaching out to the One who loves beyond reason, who continues to shape me with His wonderful hands.