The Hands of Time
To those that who make work with their hands, These hands that write, these hands that type, smooth hair, bring coffee mug to lips...they carry the lines of a life. They are a piece of me that I didn't expect to show measure of time.
Certain angles catch me off guard. While rythmically bringing the blade to rise and fall, slicing carrots into coins, I notice the way my hand holds the knife. I pause, and already the notion has begun to evanesce but I can't shake their fleeting semblance to the hands of my mother.
My daughters watch as these hands crack eggs, whip cream, and fold batter as we bake bread.
"You don't spill when you stir, Mommy." Notices Cora, batter dripping from her bowl.
"How do you know how to crack the eggs?" Asks Quinn.
I let them practice, knowing something they do not yet know. These hands get wiser with time. Someday, daughters, your hands will learn and you will spill less often. Someday they will climb mountains. Someday they will change the world.
Nostalgia visits me often while I work alone. Tonight I knelt while folding laundry and took notice, again, of the work my hands were doing. My reflections may sounds strange but I can't dismiss the sense of humble satisfaction that comes from the simple tasks I do. That we all do. While we press keys, roll stockings, wipe counters, change sheets, turn keys, tie shoes, flip switches...while our hands do the mundane, we are building worlds. Each crevice and crease a tattoo of a lifelong story of the grand things we have created in simple measure.
Isaiah 49:16 See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.
Which is a extrordinary reminder that His hands, Christ's hands, have carried us. Our names etched onto the hands that bore our sin. His hands tell our story, too. It reminds me that the works we do aren't meaningless or fruitless. He sees the walls before us that threaten to crumble and he assures us that our works are good. Whatever is done in the Spirit of the Lord is not done in vain.