Luke 4:40 (“…………….and He laid His Hands on every one of them and healed them.”) Lay your hands on me That I may talk like You; Your mouth. Lay your hands on me That I may hear like You;
There they were always present in everyday life, as the laughter of kids running around the yard. These praying hands holding knitting needles only changed position when holding the crochet hook.
Hands have always been my way to peer into another persons soul but while I was going through a blog today I froze at this picture of a tango dancers feet.
I remember clearly a journal entry that I made in my early twenties when the power that is held in my hands became apparently clear.
Rosie's hands raised me. They did things for me that my own mother's couldn't. They caught me and held me as my parents’ marriage dissolved while I was still barely teething.
My grandmother’s hands are not very pretty. They are square, rough and somewhat pudgy with short nails. They are the hands of a woman who will do what must be done. She is not a romantic.
I had sand-fly bites covering my entire body! My arms, back, and legs were devastatingly itchy. I hardly slept I was scratching, or trying not to scratch all night!