I do a lot of typing at work. Very often at the end of the day, every knuckle feels beat to a pulp. As I flexed my hands and wrists this afternoon, I got to looking at them. What remarkable creations, these appendages of ours. They can hold a spade to turn the earth and dry the tears of a loved one. They can peck away at a keyboard or be at rest in the lap. They reign in our guffaws and prop up our weary heads.
Hands tell a story. Every line, every callous, every chipped nail.
I long to see my Savior’s hands, the hands that made the universe. The hands that blessed the children. The hands nailed to a cross.
For all posts in the 31 Days in the Quiet series, go here.