Journal of Sacred Work

(It’s Friday and time for another wonderful column from the Trust’s Senior Consultant, Catherine Self – Erie) 

   Her hands once picked daisies and wove a chain to wear in
her auburn hair. Her little fingers lovingly dressed her dolls and set her tiny
table with dishes of leaves and acorn-top cups for pretend tea.
   Her hands were soft and tender when they held the hands of
her new husband, and later as they cradled the fingers of their newborn son. At
times, her hands turned red and scratched from picking the best berries from
the vines to make the sweetest pie for her family.
    Her hands are dry now from the frequent hand washing needed
to do her work. They’ve grown strong from lifting and holding and carrying
loads of linens, trays of food, and carts of bandages. Her hands are wrinkled now
and somewhat contorted, and they ache at night with the memories of so many
moments of sacred encounter…

   These hands have brushed hair, bathed faces and knees and
dirty feet. They have picked up toys, folded laundry and stacked dishes to be
dried. These hands have gently caressed, firmly held, carefully carried;
they’ve been lifted in greeting and raised to embrace and console.

   These hands are your hands – the ones that gently bathed my
Dad as he lay dying an all-too-soon death. These hands are your hands – the
ones that guided my mom as she relearned her steps as though she were once
again a toddler. These hands are your hands – the ones that soothed my sister’s
fevered brow and fed my nephew after his all-too-soon arrival in this world.
And when he runs to me now, with his hands lifted to embrace me, I thank God
for your hands. These hands are your hands – the ones that reached out to
touch, to come into my place of wonder and fear and loss; with gentle strokes
and silent caresses your love was a balm to my need.

   These hands are your hands – the ones that have literally
touched the lives of every single member of my family as well as countless
others’ mothers, brothers, lifelong partners, and children. These hands are holy
hands – the hands you extend in sacred work with every touch, in every gesture,
for every one you meet.

   These are the precious stories crafted by and held in your
hands. Hands that bring healing, and hope, and love into a frightened, confused
and hurting world. What an amazing thing, these hands – your hands – the
perfect asymmetry where form meets function, the genius balance of movement and
strength, the softest of communion made possible while yet under the shadow of possible
violent blows.

   Take a moment to savor your hands – the sacred, storied
tools of your heart and mind. What memories have created the crevasses and
smooth plains of this landscape? What hopes and dreams are carried in the
furrows and grip of your palms? What intentions have crossed the tips and
spaces, as both giver and receiver of love’s most perfect expression?
   These hands are your hands – your hands tha to carry the gift of your Healing Love. May your hands know and be known by the touch of Love in the
coming New Year.