These are my Daddy’s hands.
They’ve worked hard and long at building things. They’ve suffered, they’ve endured and they’ve loved. They’ve made mistakes that cost them pieces of themselves. They’ve been places they shouldn’t have been and done things they regret. But in spite of the mistakes and maybe because of the mistakes, they never stop fixing broken things and serving broken people. They point out caterpillars and stars to wide-eyed grandchildren. They dig vegetables to nourish others and don’t mind getting dirty. They never stop moving.
My favorite thing about these hands, though, is when I see them folded in prayer.
Flesh and spirit folded together.
The grit of humanity and the gift of Heaven intertwined.
Dirt and grace.
Broken and beautiful.
Your hands tell a story.
Make it a good one.