This week, I’ve been feeling a bit beat up.
While fixing our tractor, I cut my hand—bad enough to need stitches and a tetanus shot. Now my left arm is sore, and my right index finger has a nagging little cut that makes every small task more frustrating than it should be.
It’s reminded me how much I take for granted. Especially my hands.
We use our hands constantly—opening jars, tying shoes, cooking dinner, hugging a child, folding them in prayer. Most of the time, we don’t think twice. But when something as small as a cut interferes, we realize just how much we rely on them.
This week I’ve had to slow down, ask for help, even let some things go undone.
When our hands are hurt—or our hearts, or our plans—it may be an invitation. To slow down. To depend on others. To remember that we are not self-sufficient. And maybe, to reflect on the hands that were wounded for our salvation.