I am fascinated by looking at aging hands.  Hands have a story to tell.  Old hands, though wrinkled and weak have been the tools given to many to work, reach out and embrace life.  From the folding of hands in prayer to the folding of hands in pain; from drying heartfelt tears to drying the dishes after supper; from holding loved ones close to holding rifles in war; from shaking the fruit trees to shaking hands with dignitaries; from chopping up vegetables to chopping up wood;  these hands have a lifetime of stories.  Sometimes they’re dirty, scraped and bruised.  Other times they’re soft, smooth and gentle.  Some times they’re strong, nimble and quick.  Other times they’re weak, bent and broken.

Each jagged scar, each calloused knuckle, each crooked finger carries with it an intriguing story worth the time to listen to and learn more, but the hands that have changed my life and my  future are the nail-scarred hands of The One who gave His life for me on the cross and then resurrected Himself from the grave on the third day.  Jesus is His name.  It will be His hands that reach out to me and welcome me into Heaven.   It is the story of His hands that I want my hands to tell as they serve, pray, love, and reach out to a lost and hurting world, in Jesus’ name.