Hands

Not too long ago, I was looking at my hands. They now have many brown spots, that we call age spots. (Maybe they are sort of like the rings on the tree, the more rings, the older it is; with hands, the more spots, the older the person.) The skin itself is beginning to get that transparent look, and when pinched up, it stays up. I remember as children when my siblings and I would do that to my grandmothers' hands, and we would laugh and giggle. 
But these hands haven't always been this way. There was a time very long ago when they were much smaller, chubby and dimpled, and they would reach up and grab the big hand of my father or mother and feel safe. Even when my children were small, these hands were smooth, slender, the skin tight, and there were no spots. They would reach down and grab the small hand of my son or daughter to keep them safe. These hands would throw a ball, color a picture, or wipe a tear. But time brings about changes, and the young become the old. Just as the dark hair turns white, so the hands change and begin to show their age.

As I sit here musing over my hands, I am reminded of another pair of hands, the hands of our Savior. He used his hands to touch the blind, the sick, the dead; bringing healing and life. It was His hands that were nailed to the cross in my stead. It is His hands, His precious hands that hold me. He has said "He holds me in the palm of his hand" and "No man can pluck me out of His hand". Jn 10:28. Thank you , Jesus, for your blessed hands.