Linking up this week with Kiki O.
These are not my hands.
Marked by pale white lines of scars, memories of the past.
Broken by patches of skin torn away by table corners.
Interrupted by red-rimmed burn marks seared into flesh from careless baking.
Thin cuts from hurried zucchini slicing.
Dried by wind.
Knobbed by computer use.
Calloused by weights and guitar strings…
My hands see work. My hands do not often rest.
Busy with work.
Busy with school.
Busy in making a home even if only a home for myself.
“Go to the ant…”
There is a glorification of busy, but “idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. While busy can distract, the mind wanders to dark places in moments of rest. Daily life is a balance of finding the quiet and being productive. It leaves scars and tears and burn. It drains and dries. It makes the heart long…
Long for rest without temptation.
Long for work without exhaustion.
Long for productivity without pride.
There is miracle in the monotony as my eyes are drawn upward to that which I even my imagination can hardly grasp. These scars remind me of the fallenness of this world and long for things to come.