The shape of hands, giving thanks

The shape of hands, giving thanks

They hold what is given tenderly

With all the weight of attention, right now, here

Savoring, naming what is given

and giving thanks to the Giver.

They share, they don’t begrudge

Knowing nobody gets all the blessings, 

nobody gets everything all at once

and there is enough

They are open

They hold what is given 

and let go of what is not given

If God does not will it, it will turn into worms in these hands

They hold a heart out, 

the real and wanting heart, with the wounds and the worries

the questions and the darkness

the tension of things broken and waiting

to a Giver who can be trusted

They let go of grasping

They let go of fighting for something else

They let go of directing the play

and settle into the character, the scene, given, right here. 

They let go

or they try to let go

and when there’s a fist of grasping that can’t let 

Then there’s a letting go of forcing

and a prayerful incompleteness that can be OK (even not OK)

If He who began this work on these hands

has promised to complete it

The shape of hands, giving thanks

is the shape of hands that feel the heartbeat of Jesus

steadied by His love

held fast by His holding, 

right here.

Jesus, caretaker of all that is precious,

behold

and hold

our hands. 

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The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places, 

indeed I have a beautiful inheritance. 

In your presence there is fullness of joy;

At your right hand are pleasures forevermore. (Psalm 16)

 

outgrown pillow

 a baby boy with round cheeks; red and fat and leaning on his mom

mom is the whole world

and there is nothing but love and trust between them

it cracks a heart wide open

and mom pours out and out, 

giving life until she’s empty

until it hurts

but it hardly hurts at all really 

and she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else

when she’s baby’s pillow

and then the pillow is outgrown

‘she watches as her babies drift violently away’

giving less, that’s what really hurts

moving over, standing back, watching from the stands

she was the literal whole world

then suddenly

she becomes someone who has to work

to earn a peek into a heart

sometimes she’s shut out entirely

for long cold seasons

and she prays and waits outside the angry closed door

for years if she must

not knowing if it’s a cocoon or a tomb that encloses

not knowing if spring will come

Sometimes she’s granted VIP access

to a tender brave moment, or a tough scary question

or a whispered confession

Sometimes she’s invited into a spirited sparring match

or invited to dream alongside, 

to see shiny imagined futures in the clouds

As they get bigger,

she gets smaller

and the moments become weightier

for her

remember the bouquet of apology dandelions?

remember the blankie, and how he’d cry when you washed it?

remember the chapter books on the swing?

remember when you thought you’d die of squeaky kid voices,

thought you’d run screaming into the woods 

with one more demand? 

It was all too much. 

and then there was just

one 

more 

demand.

Let go.