Bread Crumbs

I look at my hands, how twisted and thin skinned they have become, and I listen to the story they tell. As a child, I would wrap my small hands into my horse’s mane, bound and determined not to fall off, and still go as fast as my little horse could go. When I graduated to a bigger horse, I would still use the hair in his mane to climb aboard – I praise my Father at how patient these big animals were to that little girl who just wanted to hang out with them.

My hands tell me the story of learning my ‘letters’, and how frustrated I grew when trying to learn cursive, as it was taught back then. I remember my hands went ‘on strike’, and cramped from the way I held my pencil. I never did learn how to write in cursive. Not many do anymore.

My hands remind me of the first time I cooked bacon, and how the grease splashed all over my hands. Even now, I do not like to cook bacon. I remember my collection of cast iron cookware, how I took care of them through the years. Now, I have trouble lifting a 10” skillet with these faithful hands.

My hands remind me of my first born, at how I marveled at the softness of her skin, of the smell of a newborn baby. It is easy to recollect the gestation of all of my children, of wrapping my hands around the swell in my belly, of stroking my child through my own skin. And my hands tell me of their childhood, holding them when they were afraid, clapping with each small victory, and then learning to let go when it was time. My hands remind me to praise and thank my Elohim for the time I held them close, and also for the time where they learn to stand alone.

My hands remind me of all the beautiful fabric that ran through my fingers, of the amazing quilts that came from the yards of that beautiful fabric. My hands remind me that a for real fabric store was to me like a toy aisle is to a child. I still have all of the ‘tools from that trade’, but my hands will not allow me to sew anymore.

My hands remind me of when I first became aware of WHO the God of this universe is, Yahweh our Elohim, and of His desire to have a relationship with me. I dedicated the work of my hands for HIS glory, and for His purpose, and though it has been in spurts, here a little, there a little, I am still just as excited now as when I first authored the back of the church bulletin so many years ago.

And even now, as old, gnarled, twisted and thin skinned as my hands are, even when the pain is constant, I continue to dedicate the work of my hands to the glory of my eternal Father. May I always honor YOU, my King.

What are your hands reminding you of these days?