Hands

Our two-year-old is affectionately a three-foot tornado—especially during Mass. Twisting, turning, constantly moving, and loud.

But every now and then, something quiets her: when I pick her up and she puts her hands all over my face.

She’s still learning to talk—though one of her favorite words is “mustache.” And despite seeing my face every day, there’s something fascinating to her about touching it. She traces my eyebrows, pats my cheeks, and yes pulls my mustache. It’s funny, a little chaotic—but strangely intimate.

At the risk of overanalyzing a toddler, there’s something holy about it. This instinct to reach out and touch what’s familiar. To connect not just by sight or sound, but by closeness.

During Mass this weekend, it reminded me of Thomas.

He often gets labeled as “the doubter,” but maybe he was just being childlike. When Jesus appeared after the Resurrection, Thomas didn’t just want to see—he wanted to touch. He wanted to place his hand in the Lord’s side, to trace the wounds in His hands.

Isn’t that what children do? My kids will grab my hands, rub their little fingers over the roughness, stretch my fingers to wrap their hands in mine. It’s how they find comfort, how they understand strength, how they draw near.

And in a way, it’s what all of us long for with God.

To reach out. To feel His closeness. To not just know He’s real, but to touch the One who holds us.

So maybe Thomas wasn’t doubting. Maybe he was yearning—for the kind of nearness only a child would dare to ask for.

And maybe we should ask for it too.