HEBREWS 10:31 "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a living God."
This week has brought many changes to the Flanagan Farmstead. Some good...some not so good. Even my personal Face Book page declares my stance of the day " I have seen better days, but I have also seen worse. I don't have everything, but I have all I need. I woke up with some aches and pains, but I woke up. My life may not be perfect, but I AM blessed." The barnyard has seen a lost dog come here to live with us making our family that much bigger. Recently we took in a little lost kitten. Oh how I longed to keep that little kitten, but alas we found a home for her. A good home, one that housed an 8 year old little girl in love with cats. Really, I am happy she now owns the kitten. There is just a little part of me that lingers on the dislike that the furry little thing had to go away. I have seemed to have lost so much over the years.
As I was tidying up the old farmhouse today I found myself looking at my hands. My how they have aged! Each and every line and wrinkle that I see really was not there even a year ago. Fine lines and folds of memories, hard work, and trials are painted upon the back side of my hand as a permanent tattoo of life experiences.
Now I know you are all thinking what kind of a farm wife sits and stares at the back of her hand! There is so much more than that though...I am not a well-learned woman, but this I do know, you can tell a lot by stopping to contemplate simple things...even the back of your hand.
I think of all these worn hands have done. Little visions like a small 8 millimeter film played across my mind. When they were younger hands...holding my first kitten; feeling the soft of her coat, and the warmth of her affection in her purr. The feel of the ropes of the homemade swing my dad put up for me between two huge trees at our cottage. Swinging for hours I would toss songs into the air for anyone to hear. Childish innocence and sweet abandonment prevailed as I pumped my little legs higher and higher sensing my hands developing blisters as I held tightly to those ropes.
Later the hours of dishes, warm water, soap, dishes upon dishes in the kitchen of a restaurant where I worked. The feel of the wheel driving my first car, a 1979 Chevy Impala. The negative destructive feel of my first cigarette; my attempt at fitting in with a world, years of experience has taught me, is not worth fitting into. I am very thankful that habit did not stick with me.
The softness of my hands remembers holding my first baby; her smell, her skin, her need for my hands to feed and care for her. Later the untimely death of our son. Small, a wondrously created baby so totally perfect in every way. The coldness of his skin, the lifeless small little man fit perfectly into my hands as I slowly mourned his death...still even today I remember the way he felt cradled in these hands.
Renewed hope sprung as my hands years later held my second daughter. Warm, vibrant, alive! How my hands crave to hold her and her sister again. I now can only imagine enclosing my daughters in a warm reassuring hug. A hug only a mother can give; encircling them with a love so strong they cannot grasp or fathom a way to entrap it to keep for when I am gone.
The feel of the pen, round, hard, metal, as I signed away my former life and marriage wishing it could somehow be the way it was years ago. "People change" I was told. "People fall in and out of love all the time" they exclaimed. "NO!" my heart screamed. My hands...as they enfolded my very own face felt so many tears, tears of regret, tears of pain, tears of questions, tears of longing.
It was after that my hands began a work of no good. A lost time. One in which I forgot myself, and I inflicted, and infected those around me.
Now these old wounds haunt me again. Once again they pronounce their festering and angry prodding. My hands again hold my head as I remember the pain; I am weary. All that has passed re-opened not only for me, but for all those that I love.
*Sigh* I am so weary.
That is when I remembered I am not alone. Isaiah 41:13 "For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, "Fear not, I am the One Who helps you..."
As if a gust of wind blew away all of time, my hands have aged, my heart has broken and healed. Though I have aged, and am even showing signs of withering, I am still strong. I am strong not on my own. I am not alone. I am forgiven. I am loved.
My how my ancestors' hands must have shown age as they plodded through every day life. A life that did not have all the modern conveniences we have in this time period. Who did they call upon for help?
I look at this day and age in which we have counselors, advisers, internet experts, television know-it-all's, cell phones, virtual (not always real) Face Book pals...yet people are still searching for answers.
They are just looking in the wrong place for the answer...
"For what good does it profit a man if he gain the whole world, yet lose his own soul?"
As Hebrews states, it may be a fearful thing to fall into the Hands of a Mighty God, but it is also a peaceful thing to be cradled in the Hands of that same Living, Mighty God.
As I was tidying up the old farmhouse today I found myself looking at my hands. My how they have aged! Each and every line and wrinkle that I see really was not there even a year ago. Fine lines and folds of memories, hard work, and trials are painted upon the back side of my hand as a permanent tattoo of life experiences.
Now I know you are all thinking what kind of a farm wife sits and stares at the back of her hand! There is so much more than that though...I am not a well-learned woman, but this I do know, you can tell a lot by stopping to contemplate simple things...even the back of your hand.
I think of all these worn hands have done. Little visions like a small 8 millimeter film played across my mind. When they were younger hands...holding my first kitten; feeling the soft of her coat, and the warmth of her affection in her purr. The feel of the ropes of the homemade swing my dad put up for me between two huge trees at our cottage. Swinging for hours I would toss songs into the air for anyone to hear. Childish innocence and sweet abandonment prevailed as I pumped my little legs higher and higher sensing my hands developing blisters as I held tightly to those ropes.
Later the hours of dishes, warm water, soap, dishes upon dishes in the kitchen of a restaurant where I worked. The feel of the wheel driving my first car, a 1979 Chevy Impala. The negative destructive feel of my first cigarette; my attempt at fitting in with a world, years of experience has taught me, is not worth fitting into. I am very thankful that habit did not stick with me.
The softness of my hands remembers holding my first baby; her smell, her skin, her need for my hands to feed and care for her. Later the untimely death of our son. Small, a wondrously created baby so totally perfect in every way. The coldness of his skin, the lifeless small little man fit perfectly into my hands as I slowly mourned his death...still even today I remember the way he felt cradled in these hands.
Renewed hope sprung as my hands years later held my second daughter. Warm, vibrant, alive! How my hands crave to hold her and her sister again. I now can only imagine enclosing my daughters in a warm reassuring hug. A hug only a mother can give; encircling them with a love so strong they cannot grasp or fathom a way to entrap it to keep for when I am gone.
The feel of the pen, round, hard, metal, as I signed away my former life and marriage wishing it could somehow be the way it was years ago. "People change" I was told. "People fall in and out of love all the time" they exclaimed. "NO!" my heart screamed. My hands...as they enfolded my very own face felt so many tears, tears of regret, tears of pain, tears of questions, tears of longing.
It was after that my hands began a work of no good. A lost time. One in which I forgot myself, and I inflicted, and infected those around me.
Now these old wounds haunt me again. Once again they pronounce their festering and angry prodding. My hands again hold my head as I remember the pain; I am weary. All that has passed re-opened not only for me, but for all those that I love.
*Sigh* I am so weary.
That is when I remembered I am not alone. Isaiah 41:13 "For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, "Fear not, I am the One Who helps you..."
As if a gust of wind blew away all of time, my hands have aged, my heart has broken and healed. Though I have aged, and am even showing signs of withering, I am still strong. I am strong not on my own. I am not alone. I am forgiven. I am loved.
My how my ancestors' hands must have shown age as they plodded through every day life. A life that did not have all the modern conveniences we have in this time period. Who did they call upon for help?
I look at this day and age in which we have counselors, advisers, internet experts, television know-it-all's, cell phones, virtual (not always real) Face Book pals...yet people are still searching for answers.
They are just looking in the wrong place for the answer...
"For what good does it profit a man if he gain the whole world, yet lose his own soul?"
As Hebrews states, it may be a fearful thing to fall into the Hands of a Mighty God, but it is also a peaceful thing to be cradled in the Hands of that same Living, Mighty God.
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