Hands

A man walks into a crowed room--staring at the empty faces he sees around him. He glances over at a woman, who dropped a box full of papers while no one helps her pick them up. Stepping over her accident, he makes his way to his office. Sitting at his desk he discovers a rather healthy stack of messages scattered over his desk. Swearing under his breath he calls his assistant in. "Why didn't you call me? Tell me that these are all from this morning..." The assistant looks nervously at his hands, wondering if the stated question was rhetorical. After a long pause, the man told the assistant to leave in a manner that wasn't polite to say in the least.

He looked at his hands after the assistant walked out of the room. Had he adequately used his hands? Had he lent his hand to the assistant or that woman who dropped the papers? What about this morning when he yelled at his wife and told her he didn't have time to help her get the kids ready for school?

The thought passed quickly, however. He went on his way, habitually looking at his hands at his desk. There was something that enticed him about those warn hands but he never cared to figure it out.

One stressful day a dream started to form in his mind as he sought relaxation while staring at his hands. It was a beautiful and heart breaking scene: A woman kneeling to pray--hands clasped; a man studying his scriptures with his scriptures while holding his little girls hand; an elderly woman being led by the hand of a young man and finally a man crying into his palms. The last man was the most significant. He was pleading, tearing, scratching, and prodding with his fingers deep in the soil of the ground.

"Why, Father?" He kept desperately questioning the sky. After some time he rose, walked a ways and put his hand on the shoulder of one who was sleeping with intent to wait. The man wasn't mad and yet he wasn't happy. He was deep in thought and returned to the seemingly familiar place where his hands had previously groped.

The scene quickly changed and the dreamer couldn't bare to watch. Dark gloom took over. He saw the man that used His hands and watched him struggle in agony as many used their hands to counterfeit His.

A woman stumbles and the crops from her hands spill near by. The dreamer steps over her, walks past but notices the man who tore at the ground, the Giver, amidst struggle bending down and helping the perfectly able women clean a mess she never intended to make. With her hand in His, He helps her to her feet. With her palm pressed to His face, tears stream down the dreamer's cheeks. A blind man approaches the Giver and besought to be healed. The Giver had many tasks ahead but took the time to touch the beggars eyes with His hands. The blind man kissed the Giver's hands and feet--ever seeking repentance.

Again the scene changes--
The Giver is lying on crudely crafted wood, made from the hands of the innocent bystander who didn't know any better than to listen to orders coming from a mysterious and melancholy source.

Another man's hand touches the shoulder of the dreamer. He pushes the dreamer out of the way--his hands occupied by long, rough nails and a hammer. On one knee, one hand on the ground for support, the nailer places the point in the Giver's palm.

Just as he's about to hammer it in the dreamer looks away. He can't bare the thought of watching someone who, through all of His suffering and kindness, endure even more. Nevertheless, he hears the Giver; He's speaking words of love, joy, sadness, pain, and forgiveness. No longer able to use His hands, the Giver looks towards the sky and pleads, "Forgive them, for they know now what they do."

Tears fall from the Dreamer's face. He reaches up and wipes them away with his hands. He immediately drops to his knees, imploring for the freedom of this Giver's soul. The image fades and the man is sitting at his desk. Realizing he was staring at his hands for nearly two hours he faces reality with resolve to do better. He never noticed how buried the pictures of the Savior and his family were in all of the paperwork on his desk.

He picked up a message the assistant had given him from his wife which he hadn't read till now: "He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart...shall receive the blessing[s] from the Lord." Remember the tender mercies. I love you!

He immediately fell to his knees; hands groping whatever he could get at. His prayer wasn't in a garden, but with carpet wearing thin.

Night passed quickly as he drove home. On the way to his room he lingered at each child's door frames. A new light filled his eyes and warmth entered his heart. Now lying next to his wife, he knew that Dawn was near. A Dawn of new beginning, of gratitude, love and enduring forgiveness. He finally understood how to use his hands.