The lines and colors. The freckles and veins. The length of your fingers and the shape of your nails. I like to sew and was pondering a few projects that I would like to begin when Proverbs 31:13 came to mind:

¹³ She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.

That thought was followed with these verses from the same book and chapter:

¹⁹ She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff. ²⁰ She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

In fact, that whole chapter mentions the work and the fruit of a virtuous woman’s hands. Another Proverb says:

14:1 Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.

It seems like such a trivial thing, but what a gift and a responsibility the Lord has afforded us with these extensions of our bodies.

Bodies?

No.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that our hands are really extensions of our hearts.

As a wife, a mom, and a Child of the King, I want my hands to be used for sharing the love that God put in my heart the moment He saved my soul, and not for selfishness.Yet, I seem to use it more for the latter.

My hands have dug in the dirt of our garden. They have kneaded and rolled out dough. They have sewn and cut and mended… but more than that…

With my hands I have comforted my children during broken hearts, skinned knees, and fevers. With the same love, I have used my hands to correct their behavior.

My left hand bears the symbol of a promise I made to my husband and to God.

I have scars that prove my clumsiness.

My lack of manicure tattles of both my love for working and my laziness in grooming.

I have folded my hands to thank God for provision.

I have folded my hands to beg for forgiveness.

I have done many things with my hands. Not always good. Not always charitable.

You see, my heart isn’t perfect; therefore, my hands aren’t perfect.

But there is a pair of hands that are perfect in their imperfection.

They aren’t pretty, but they are glorious.

They are scarred, but not because of clumsiness like mine. They are scarred from nails being driven into them.        

The nails tore into the flesh of a man and attached Him to a cross. They didn’t keep Him on the cross. His love for me… and for you… that’s what kept Him there.

I don’t know that I could ever love humanity so much that I would die for it, but I don’t have to. Someone already did that.

When I get to heaven, my hands won’t be scarred anymore. They won’t be clumsy. They won’t be selfish. They won’t be ugly. They will be part of my new, glorified body– a body free of sin and death. My new hands will be lifted up, praising the one who bears the scars of His love for me in His precious hands.

What a day that will be.

By: Tangi