My hands hurt. Most of the time, these days, they hurt.
I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.
A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.
I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.
Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.
In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.
The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.
Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.
When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.
Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.
I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.
The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.
I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.
One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.
It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.
Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.
Lend me a hand.
Get your grubby hands off!
I’ve got to hand it to you.
He knows this town like the back of his hand.
We’re just living hand to mouth these days.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.
My right-hand man.
These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part. Hands are important to us.
They are important to our God, as well.
His Word is full of hands.
Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)
Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)
Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)
Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)
Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)
A hand that wrote on a wall—a warning to God’s enemies. (Daniel 5:5)
Hands that were stretched wide in love. Hands through which spikes were driven—the blessing of God’s saving grace to all mankind. (Isaiah 53:5)
There are more.
Thousands of them. Hands. Doing good.
And yes, thousands doing evil.
I’ve heard the words of God to Moses innumerable times. (Exodus 4:2)
What do you have in your hands?
I’ve always thought the important thing was the answer to that question. Moses had a staff. I have other things. But, here’s the deal.
God doesn’t need my things.
He needs my hands.
My hands.
To be willing to be open. For Him.
Or, holding on. For Him.
My beaten up, scarred, stiff, sore hands.
With our hands, yours and mine, He will touch the world—perhaps one person at a time—perhaps thousands.
On second thought, I’m certain that hands don’t have to be soft to be beautiful.
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Hearts. Hearts have to be soft.
The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.
And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.
His did, too.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do,
For the Father up above is looking down in love.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do.
(from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
(Psalm 90:17 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.
