Now this one will get a little deep :) But, I recently went on a training weekend for massage, and if you know anything about massage therapists, you probably know they are mostly on the spiritual, earthy, end of the spectrum. And that's good! I am not too openly spiritual, but I do have a side to me that is...so this weekend was a good fit, because we mostly did training all day, but began each day with a Japanese exercise, or meditation, or another form of meditation or centering.
On Sunday, in particular, I was missing church for this training and I appreciated the extra group meditations we did. There was one, especially, that caught us all (or MOST of us) by surprise, emotionally. I HATE crying in front of people, but it happened. Partly because I was watching others become emotional, and I am nothing if not a social crier. But also partly because the meditation conjured up some very personal images and thoughts.
The whole guided reading was about hands in your life. Very fitting for student massage therapists! We use our hands for so much, and not too many people stop and think about how personal hands are.
Through the reading, there was mention of the perfection of a baby's hand. The little dimples in the knuckles.
An old person's hands, and all the experiences those hands have seen.
Your spouse's hands
Your parents' hands
And it asked if you ever thought you held God's hand? You DID. You held God's hand when you held your baby's hand, your parent's hand, your husband's hand and your ailing grandparent's hand.
This struck me because I couldn't stop thinking of Aden's little tiny pink fist when I held him for the first time, after such pain and emotion, a tiny little miracle grasping my finger for dear life. Literally.
I always remember that. I always, to this day, kiss the little dimples on both kids' knuckles. Their little fingers are so precious and perfect! Untouched by pain, unmarred by hardship. Only loved and cherished, carefree and happy. Innocent. I am, every day, holding God's hand.
So we must remember to treat it with care.
Then I think of my grandma's hands, at the end of her life. So wrinkled and marred...but kissed by each memory they made, each experience lived, each child born, each hardship overcome. Kissed by the man who loved her for 40 years.
I also think of the man who loves ME. Those hands have held mine, they've held them warm and strong while promising our lives to each other.
They've held mine while I have cried. While I've been sick. They've literally supported me when my back was out. They've never shown anger or physical pain. Never disrespect, only love and tenderness and safety. They've taken punishment while I have delivered my children and squeezed them in pain. Then they've held that very life, and stroked their cheeks and their hair, and held their tiny hands.
Then my parents. Life God guiding us all, our parents guide us through life. You may remember, as far back as you can, looking up at your joined hands while walking with your parent, or other family members who raised you. The unfailing love, solid strength and tenderness they held. They aptly removed splinters, secured band-aids, wiped tears, yanked those stubborn teeth....(ouch)
For a moment, their hands weren't being kissed as much, but doing the kissing. They were caring for others, just as others cared for them as they grew.
And then, the one that brought the hammer down....Micah's hands. That boy I loved in high school who died SO young. We were with him for a few days, while the machines kept his heart alive. So young, so precious...so loved by many. His hands, I will never forget. They were scraped, blistered, with dirt under and around the nails. So harsh and dirty and I think about how those people who were with him didn't kiss those hands. They didn't care for them, didn't cherish them. Signs of struggle and pain in his last hours. They were God's hands, and they weren't protected and loved. I remember holding them and thinking how familiar his hands were, how I remembered holding his hands, clean and healthy, just weeks before he went to training. And here I was, finally getting to hold hid hands again after several weeks of being apart, and he was so close, yet so far away.
We don't think, nearly enough, about how getting to shake someone's hand is a privilege. It's an honor that you got to touch that person. You got you leave your mark, and become a memory forever attached to their hands. We were all made in God's image, and we were all made from each other.
I can only leave you with a phrase I have tried to model my career(s) around:
Whatsoever you do for the least of My people, that you do unto Me.
