Hands take the brunt of life\'s beatings.
Bruises, burns, broken bones. Too many dishes and
diapers. A wrench slips. That fall on the icy sidewalk.
Hands protect, defend and absorb life. And they grow
old, living roadmaps, sometimes a little twisted off
course, fingers that don\'t point as straight as they
used to. History books at the end of each arm.
But hands also bless. Held reverently in prayer,
uplifted over the altar, reaching out to embrace
the lost one returning home, soothing the skinned
knee or wiping away tears, engaging in acts of
tender mercy.
I hope for my surgeon to have steady hands,
my friend to have helpful hands, my lover to
have gentle hands, the people along the way
whom I have hurt to have open and forgiving
hands.
May I find in my own hands the will to help
others, even when it\'s inconvenient; courage
to take on the hard task. But most of all,
may grace fall from my hands on all who
pass my way.
And when these days are done, may my
tired hands reach out to yours, Waiting
Spirit. May I find rest in the hollow of
your sacred hand until it\'s time to rise
and ride a new star.