Those Hands

"Broken," brown-haired boy uttered. "Broken, broke." How did all of those break? Scattered on the cement, various pastel-colored chalk, split in two, and I watched as grandson cracked another in half, dropping it to the ground. And he pointed to the chalk, as if the pieces could mend themselves, supernaturally caulked and made right again.

 

Why don't you play with them, draw a picture, make pretty?

 

When things are cracked, broken and messy, maybe it's the simple things that shape the heart.

Bend down amidst the undone, the cluttered imperfection, trusting that at some point, someone else will help pick up the pieces and make right.

Inch out one more ounce of trust, one more faltering step,one more choice and wait...

And those hands, those hands you fear have dropped you down rough, leaving you disordered, undone. Those hands that shaped the world, they hold you still, gently, tenderly, making pretty out of suffering, coloring scars with delicate shades of Grace.