When the sun was setting, all those who had anyone sick with various diseases brought them to Jesus. As He laid His hands on each one of them, He would heal them. Luke 4:40
Then Jesus led them out as far as Bethany, and lifting up His hands He blessed them. And while He was blessing them, He left them and was carried up into heaven. After worshiping Him, they returned to Jerusalem with great joy. And they were continually in the temple complex praising God. Luke 24:50-53
My words…
One of my bibles is very old, the binding worn. I like that bible because Your words are written in red ink. Many times, I would open my bible and read the red words only, and that was enough for me. But I have learned that Your hands tell a silent story of their own. I picture them small and smooth, clutching Mary as Your family fled for Your lives into Egypt. You grew to learn carpentry skills, and You earned every cut and scar on Your palms and fingers. They were immersed in river water at Your baptism and cracked and dry during Your time of fasting and temptation in the wilderness. You did not recoil in the presence of those with unsightly, contagious diseases, oh no. You reached toward them, touched them, and cleansed them. Peter’s mother in law felt the touch of Your hand, and her fever fled. You placed Your fingers on the eyes of the blind so they could see. In the presence of thousands, You held loaves of bread and caused them to multiply. Just as Peter began to sink into the sea, You caught hold of him and asked about his faith. During one of the most insightful scenes in scripture, You placed Your weary hands on a group of little children and smiled and blessed them. A woman who had walked bent over for 18 years stood upright when You touched her disfigured body. You used Your hands to teach a lesson on justice when You overturned the tables of the temple money changers. You placed Your fingers in a deaf man’s ears, and Your soothing voice was the first sound he heard. You neglected to wash Your hands when dining with a Pharisee and used the occasion to teach him what true cleanliness is. The apostles never forgot the touch of Your hands on their feet when You washed them. You broke a loaf of unleavened bread and held a cup of wine as You served the first Lord’s Supper. You carried Your own cross, and the pain from the splinters did not compare to the pain caused by the iron spikes piercing Your palms. And then, the final time Your hands were seen, they were lifted in a position of blessing. How fitting.
Even if Your spoken words were never captured in red ink, I would still be able to know You, learn from You, and love You just by reading about Your hands. That is enough for me.
