I look at my hands and I know the truth.
These hands were formed perfectly in the dark waters, their very prints etched by the mysterious swirling and the imagination of a Creator God at work. From the beginning, purpose was pressed into their pattern. Even before one grain of time’s sands slipped through the glass, their shape and form and capacity were determined.
I know this. I do.
And yet I still catch myself wringing those very same hands, the ones that were shaped just for me.
Do I somehow believe that, in the wrenching, all the worry will fall away, like old brittle snakeskin, shed to make room for new? Or is the action more akin to a kneading, an attempt to make one thing into another? What is my intention when I take the very handiwork of God and close it in upon itself, over and over and over?
I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today and I would love for you to join me there. This month's theme is Enough and you can finish reading what I've learned about my hands and enough.