I love when photographers take pictures of hands. Hands that just got married showing off their wedding rings and a future full of hope. A father and mother’s hands clasped over her pregnant belly, rejoicing in their long awaited gift. Hands cradling newborn babies and the hands of a mother and daughter holding onto each other for possibly the last time. Hands are one of the first things I notice about people.

There are 98 years of life between the hands in this picture. Ninety-eight years of sun, dirt, work, love, hello’s, good-bye’s, and so much more.  This is a picture of my husband and my hands. Thankfully, they don’t look like this all the time. They look like this because when I said, “I do”, I became Mark’s helpmate. Today he needed my help replacing the bushings in his truck. We had fun and thoroughly enjoyed being together, working on a project. We have had many “projects” throughout our marriage.

Our hands have delivered babies and discipline teens. Our hands have provided for our family and even others. Our hands have spanked and a moment later, dried tears. Our hands have touched many lives. I know my hands have secretly Force Choked some people.  Today, as we worked on the truck, we talked about the hands that helped shape us. Mark described in detail his father’s hands. The spots, loose skin, and long fingers. I fondly remembered every bent knuckle of my grandfather’s hands. My grandfather (Daddy Bob) and father both were tool and die men. Their hands were always stained. I thought about the hands of my father-in-law. He had hands the size of a grizzly bear and yet he could put the smallest nut onto a Harley.

Think about this. We hold hands and shake hands. We love with our hands and fight with them. We can use them to save lives or take lives.  We use them to beg God for mercy and then shake them at heaven in anger. There is an entire language spoken solely with the hands. Think about all that your hands do that you take for granted every day. You are reading this because my hands are typing.

My hands will never be as big, strong, or as calloused as my husband’s and all these great men whose hands we remember. As much as I remember the strength and hard work of these men, what I remember more is the gentleness. Seeing a man the size of my father-in-law hold a small child is priceless. I can still remember Daddy Bob drying my tears with his tan, leathery, bent fingers when I had been repeatedly stung by bees. I see the hope chest that my father made for me and all the intricate detail he put into it. These hands are amazing and yet they pale in comparison to the hands of Jesus.

Jesus’ hands were pierced for my transgressions; sins. His hands had nails driven through them to protect me from the gates of hell, if only I would believe. His hands healed. His hands brought men back to life. His hands gave sight to the blind. His hands fed the 5000. His hands washed the feet of His disciples. His hands folded in prayer asking that this cup be kept from Him and when it wasn’t, His hands picked up His cross and conquered the world.

The most powerful thing we can do with our hands is fold them in prayer, lift them heavenward in praise, and lend them to our neighbor.

It fascinates me that this picture could almost be a black and white due to the amount of grease on our hands.  Except for those shiny gold rings. No matter how dirty our hands and lives get, the covenant, the love of God always shines bright.