Into the hands of the Lord

Sometimes in the morning when I wake, my hands are tightly clenched.

Two years ago this month my father passed away. He'd had a severe stroke and his prognosis was bleak: a few days; a week at most. He lived for another two and half years. During those two years I watched him decline--slowly at first and then faster as his last day drew near.

What I remember most about this time was how he retreated into himself. As his mind closed down, so did his body. Nothing was more evident of this to me than his hands. In health he had big, robust hands. A little too large for his frame; somewhat meaty. The hands of a hard worker. But as the illness swallowed him up, his hands became useless.

I would tell him, "Papi, open your hands" and pry them open. I would give him objects to grasp, a kitten to pet, a grandchild to hold. Nothing worked for very long. His closely clasped hands were the outward evidence of his inward malaise.

Now I'm preparing to undertake a mission trip. And I know my hands should be open. In supplication. In service. In humble offering of myself. I've read a lot of 'hand' references. The bible is full of them. I know my anxieties should be laid at the foot of the cross; I should be holding everything loosely, as nothing belongs to me; my hands should be clasped in prayer; lifted in worship.

But in the morning I wake up with indentations on my palms where my fingernails have dug in during the night.

"I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men." 2 Samuel 24:14

I have a prayer request. I want hands that cling only to His promises. I want hands that serve. And I want to wake up with open hands.