I will not claim to know a great many things. No, my knowledge is very limited. However, in spite of those limitations there are a few things that I know and a few things that manage to slip their way past my straining brain, past the forgetfulness, past the youth to become lodged forever in my tiny little bucket of knowledge. And, really, this process is a hard one. So many things come to me ready to be savored and treasured and stowed away, and yet so many fall through the cracks and are forgotten. A million tiny things happen every day, things that I would love to hold close for the rest of my life, but in a moment or two they have already slipped and faded.
Those lost things are why I appreciate my hands so much, I think. You see, I'm not terrible careful with my hands, I should be, but I'm not. My busy fingers and small wrists are covered in scars and the backs of my hands shine with the glossy glint of past adventures. My hands tell stories. They remind me of things I would have forgotten long ago without them; like a pale, blue day all bundled up from the cold and watching my reflection in the huge windows of our back porch while the gnarled trees swayed with the bitter wind. One reminds me of a night spent racing around a garden with my sister, this was followed by a hushed trip to the bathroom and a quick, ill-fitting bandage to try and save my pride. There is one for a poor choice on a bike trail, one for a day of archery, two were gained while tearing lights off of a tree.
My hands are my story. They are torn and battered, they sometimes ache, but when I look at them I can remember things that I would have lost, otherwise.
I like to think that my scars reflect more than just memories. Maybe, somehow, the tattered look of my hands is His way of reminding me that this world hurts for a while, but good things come. Maybe it's His way of reminding me that He didn't put me here to get out clean and unscathed, He put me here to love for Him and to fight for Him and those both can leave scars. My savior was a warrior who loved me enough to take the scars I'd give Him and still hold on. So, when I look at my hands, when I see the scars this world has left on me, I pray that He will grant me the strength to hold on like He did, to love like He did.
kaJo
Those lost things are why I appreciate my hands so much, I think. You see, I'm not terrible careful with my hands, I should be, but I'm not. My busy fingers and small wrists are covered in scars and the backs of my hands shine with the glossy glint of past adventures. My hands tell stories. They remind me of things I would have forgotten long ago without them; like a pale, blue day all bundled up from the cold and watching my reflection in the huge windows of our back porch while the gnarled trees swayed with the bitter wind. One reminds me of a night spent racing around a garden with my sister, this was followed by a hushed trip to the bathroom and a quick, ill-fitting bandage to try and save my pride. There is one for a poor choice on a bike trail, one for a day of archery, two were gained while tearing lights off of a tree.
My hands are my story. They are torn and battered, they sometimes ache, but when I look at them I can remember things that I would have lost, otherwise.
I like to think that my scars reflect more than just memories. Maybe, somehow, the tattered look of my hands is His way of reminding me that this world hurts for a while, but good things come. Maybe it's His way of reminding me that He didn't put me here to get out clean and unscathed, He put me here to love for Him and to fight for Him and those both can leave scars. My savior was a warrior who loved me enough to take the scars I'd give Him and still hold on. So, when I look at my hands, when I see the scars this world has left on me, I pray that He will grant me the strength to hold on like He did, to love like He did.
kaJo
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