Every pair of hands tells a story, and we shouldn’t be daunted to tell ours. The creases in your palm tell of hours spent with hands curled, clutching, holding. The calluses on your fingertips declare perseverance. The markings and scars have tales of their own to share, about mistakes covered by new life. At the end of it all, I desire to have hands worn and injured and mended—if they were to tell a story, I want it to be one of an unrelenting pursuit to respond. Outstretched, abandoned hands are the ones God uses to bring heaven to earth.
