As I’ve grown older there are physical things about myself that I wish were different. One of them is my hands. To me they are old, ugly and spotty. They work just fine and I am forever thankful for that. Even so, I have wasted a lot of time wishing they were – well – prettier.
Genetics can be cruel.
One day a few years back, I was looking at my hands – wishing – and the Lord reminded me of my father. I saw my daddy in my mind’s eye. I could see his warm smile, his beautiful crystal blue eyes and his silvery white curly hair – it was thick and full.
I could feel his laughter – he laughed a lot. I could see him walking with great difficulty as the pain in his body was slowly taking its toll, and I could hear him praying for others to be healed, even as his physical condition deteriorated.
And then my thoughts drifted to his hands, covered in dark spots, wrinkles, and scars. How I loved those hands. They held mine so many times through the years. To me, they meant comfort, strength, assurance and kindness.
The Holy Spirit spoke softly to me. “Do not despise your hands. They carry the mark of your father.”
In an instance of time the Lord changed me. I felt great joy. I knew that I was a marked woman, and that I was blessed by it.
Oh may it be that just as my hands bear the mark of my earthly father, my life would bear the mark of my heavenly father. That’s a good prayer.