Hands

It wasn’t a surgeon’s hand
finessed and fine
to glide the knife, open
skin laid back
my soul exposed.
It was a lover’s touch
deep through my heart
not with a mirror
not eyes in judgment
but gentle hands cupped,
my soul’s resting place.
His hands gift me who I am
cradle me in growth
spread fingers to make room.
A lover’s hands
not to covet, simply
cherish the one He made.

.

.

.

Humility.

I usually think of the humble as those doing everything for others and not thinking about themselves, waiting for their turn if there is enough left, silent. After all, isn’t that what the reading at Mass this Sunday instructed me to do to prove my humility?

Those ways are pieces of the puzzle. However, our priest and homilist, Reverend Kathleen Goreman at the Church of the Holy Family, ECC, gave me a big new piece to work into the picture.

Vulnerability. I now add vulnerability to a pile of puzzle pieces I have been gathering this past year.

One piece, however, and maybe the most important, is still the one I keep picking up trying to fit into the picture of myself. Then putting it down again because it is hard to make this one fit.

I am loved without condition. No strings attached.

I am learning to understand this and that I don’t have to earn love. It has been freely given. And because I am so loved, I have been presented with gifts I must use. These are not mine to horde, hide, waste, or boast about. They are His gifts that will be shared. I must allow myself to be vulnerable, willing to hear His voice inside me and recognize His voice in the voices of others.

Vulnerability is scary. I must trust that it is not my game but His.

And that is humility.

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