3 Days until Easter

3 Days until Easter

His hands.  That’s where my heart will focus today.  On His precious hands. 

As a mama, there is something dear about the hands of my children.  Their hands are what reach for me when they are in need.  Their hands are what join us physically.  In our happiest times and our times of greatest grief, we've been connected by our hands. Their hands are what I’ve grabbed from their bedside when they were sick or scared or sad.  Without Margo and Jude even being in my presence, I can feel their hands.  Each individual hand.  Because the love of a mother latches on to little details like that.  The memory of a moment brands itself on a mother’s heart and the touch of her child’s hand sticks with her forever. And sitting here reflecting, my heart aches thinking about my Savior's hands. I can't help but wonder what it was like in their final moment. Mother and Son. The hands of Jesus, had transformed in His 33 years on earth.  I can only imagine the anguish that washed over Mary when her eyes moved from her hands to His. Those tiny fingers had wrapped around Mary’s in Bethlehem.  As His mother stood there at the foot of the cross, longing for her Son to escape the torturous pain, her thoughts drifted in and out, past and present.  She could still feel the delicate little fingers as she pressed them against her lips for His first kiss.  She could still see them lovingly pat His siblings as they played.  She could still see them holding the piece of wood when He was a boy, as Joseph worked to build a piece of furniture for one of their neighbors.   She could see the fingers, illuminated by the candle light, turn the pages of scriptures as a teen.  He was so full of wisdom and knowledge.  They had been such hard working hands in His village.  Not a person in Nazareth wasn’t impacted in some way by His hands.  Embracing hands.  Helping hands.  Supporting hands.  Strong hands.  Loving hands.  They knew the hands of Jesus.

He didn’t shy away from holding His mother’s hand either.  She could still feel it.  His grip was strong, yet gentle.  His hands on her shoulders as she worked in the kitchen.  She could still feel them.  His touch left lasting impressions.  The love that flowed through His fingers lit the soul.  And like a strike of lightning ripping her heart, her thoughts would come back to the present.  His hands were just out of reach, but so close.  They were curled around a spike that was about ⅜ of an inch wide.  His shoulders looked dislocated.  And then the view of Him blurs.  Tears that come straight from the depths of her inner soul burst forth.  And as her head falls into her own hands, her thoughts drift back.  

He had wrapped His hands around John’s and was baptized.  And once they were raised from the water, they were on mission.  His hands were His physical connection to the people.  The touch of His fingers cleansed the skin of lepers.  A gentle stroke of His hand had brought healing to a multitude at sunset.  His touch brought the dead to life. And with His hands, He took 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish, raised them up to Heaven in blessing, then broke them to feed 5,000.  Resting His hands over the eyes of a blind man would restore sight.  His hand could lay out to straighten a spine, to bless a child, or restore peace to the restless.  His hands were powerful and whatever they touched, they changed.

The day before, His hands held the feet of His disciples, as He showed them such love as He washed them clean.  They broke the bread and poured out the wine.  They clutched the ground in the garden, as He prayed about this very moment.  Here were the hands of our Redeemer, curling up, crushed by the iron spike, right at the median nerve.  Mary glances at them one last time. She looks at them carefully, one hand at a time; the hands that spun the void of nothingness into a universe with energy and life, were hammered through, as a punishment for the sum of sin that He did not commit.

And after telling John to take His most cherished mother, they lock eyes and exchange one last moment, in the present.  And gripping His spikes with His hands, while holding our sins, I can only imagine that He straightened Himself up one last time on the cross as He shared with His mother one final look that held the greatest love she’d ever known.  

“I am poured out like water, and My bones are out of joint: My heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of My bowels.  My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.” -Psalm 22:14-15

Jesus, Messiah, my hands hold my head, overcome with sorrow for Your torment at the crossbar.  I pray that you will take my hands and use them with your power.  Let them be a compassionate touch to lives in need of love.  They are for Your use, and always remind me of this.  Every stranger, every friend, every loved one should feel You when they are touched by my hands.  Open my hands to do Your work constantly.  Keep them in a posture of prayer, and thanks, and goodness, and mercy.  These hands, my Lord, I lift to You.