When I started to write, I noticed my hands. It was like I was looking at my hands for the first time. I was a taken back by their appearance. "Whose hands are these?" I looked at them, and asked again, "Whose hands are these?"
At age 45, my hands look more and more like my 70 year old mother’s. Just before my birthday last month I heard it said, “Never regret growing older for it is a privilege denied to many.”
What do my hands still need to do that I am given this privilege of life?
I know they were needed last night when I placed them on Katie’s head to help her monkey mind. Someone once told me I have healing hands. I trust those words. I guess when it comes to using my hands to heal it does not matter if there are age spots, veins popping out, wrinkly knuckles or thin skin. What does matter is my willingness to use them to touch, massage, comfort, cook, drive, call, etc. I am grateful for my hands to write, to hold a cup a tea, to prune, to cradle, to pull close, and to wrap around.
God, help me to see beauty. Help me to see things the way you do. Help me to look beyond what I see and see my hands for what they are… healing hands!