The sun lies dappled, waves of light over his face.
He smiles at me, his eyes disappearing into cheeks filled with joy.
I raise my own face to the sun as the birds sing to God of His glory.
I raise my hand, brush away hair from my lips and eyes.
My hands.
Hands that look just like my grandmothers.
Small enough to clean the canning jars, like hers.
Strong enough to comfort and work.
Soft and inviting to hold. Ragged and ripped around the cuticles.
My hands say I am mama.
No time for paint.
No time for manicures.
Just the bareness of busyness lying next to the sparkle of promises.
And I think.
Of what my hands have done over time.
The work, the hurt, the joy.
Folded in prayer, covered with tears.
Cradling a newborn babe.
Offering food they had made.
Touching, loving, and giving the bread of affection to a hungry soul.
Hands that could have harmed, had I not been saved.
Hands that were born into harn and saved by grace.
Hands that learned of love from the hands of the One who gives all good things.
And my prayer
for today
Is that in all things, His hands are folded tightly over my own
guiding, offering, helping.
And loving, always loving.
