"Who touched me?" He asked. It seemed like a ludicrous question, especially since the crowd was thick and pressing. But it was a different type of touch. Her faith was revealed as she simply reached for the hem of His robe and gave it her last shot at complete healing. And her faith was rewarded. No words were spoken, but her life was forever transformed because her hand reached out to God.
Hands are amazing instruments. They can express emotions louder than words: screaming anger, whispering comfort, silently crying, or writhing in pain. With my hands I can tell you that I love you, by hugging you when you're in need of a friend. Or by cooking you a meal when you're down and out, writing a message with encouraging words, giving you a high-five when you've jumped a hurdle. Putting my hands together, I can pray for you, asking the Lord to cover you with His peace.
With my hands folded under my cheek, I sleep peacefully at night, surrendering my fragility to His care and resting in the hope of tomorrow. With my hands, I reach up and let You lift me, pulling me from depression and sluggish surroundings. With my hands I plead my case, knowing that you have already saved me, justified me, and what I'm experiencing is just part of the process of sanctification.
I wonder what my hands will look like in heaven. No more sickness, pain, and sin. My hands no longer pleading, instead relishing eternal love.
