Being His Hands and Feet

 

 

Hands that smelled of wonderful garlic when checking a teen's forehead for signs of fever, were hands that had had a full day by noon: preparing breakfast from scratch, getting dressed for the day, setting things in order, and beginning a pot of fresh chicken and vegetable soup.

Those were hands that applied Mentholatum and a warm towel to the teen's chest; hands that cleaned the always-clean house; hands that fed the dog, and that disposed of his or her messes with old rusted shovels; hands that pruned and watered. Those were hands that saved for a time such as this.

And those were hands of child-like faith that paid dues to those who compelled dues, but who thought those dues were as offerings. Those were hands that, although married, had shared the burden of work by cleaning a house across town, and by picking cotton and teaching some of the first children to do the same.

Those were hands that helped set the communion table; hands that patiently drew fish from the water; hands that scaled the fish, gutted them, froze them, thawed them, and fried them for a household.

Those were hands that kept hair in order, and clothing clean. Those were hands that clasped in prayer: hands that thankfully held a hymn book some Sundays, and a Bible each night before bed. Those were hands that hugged some of us adults tightly, and that held us babies loosely if we fell asleep on knees. Those were hands that meant for everyone who was at home in the house, to be sure to eat a whole, nutritious meal.

Those hands also scolded, not as a way of life, not often, but as circumstances called — and not in any demonic way!

Those hands were of a Christian, and, yes, they always expressed Jesus' love.

In time, I found my hands were becoming those hands. As a member of the church, as a member of Jesus' body, I was becoming of His hands and feet. That meant that, with all my faith, I had strength to persevere, and that I served as Heaven led, already hearing God say, "Servant, well done."

Now, my day of service is different. I don't feel service in my hands, I don't feel the love of Jesus in my feet, and I don't feel a song of heart, to help me, each day, overcome. I don't know, anymore, whether the heavenly Savior will say of this day, "Servant, well done."

Instead, my hands are numbed, my feet are a bit mechanical, and my face and neck are nearly always under stress and strain, and my eyes — dysfunctional under the strain — can no longer smile or speak.

In quiet agony, often feeling shaky and drugged, I feel somehow distant from everything and everyone. And I wonder, now, whether my hands, after all is over, can ever be of real service again. Will my hands be among Christian guides that can show another child anything good — of the Bible, of cooking, of nature, of values in a household?

But I thank God I, at least, can still bear witness in Him, a little. And my witness, right now, is that God has brought me from a long way.

When I was a teen, the values I was most exposed to, were all about special occasions (and expensive purses). But as a Christian comedian, a few years ago, was sampled saying: Someone has "done a good job raising" me — raising me as an adult.

It's been as an adult that I've found my salvation. It's been as an adult that I've found new life. It's been as an adult that I've learned so much.

As an adult, I've lived Philippians 3:13-14: "I count not myself to have apprehended [I don't consider myself to have obtained complete santification or all of Heaven's promises*]: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."

Long gone are days when my concept of comfort was a fine leather bag. Long gone are those days of living lost and without a clue about Heaven and finances. Long gone is that time of living without heavenly redemption. Now, I'm at a time of knowing not only maturity in the Lord, but that some things, personally and in faith, are best left at the right hand not knowing what the left is doing.

So, in continued hardship, I endure.

It is better, the Bible says, to suffer for doing good than for joining in with doing wrong. ... Lord, help me repent tomorrow of what I didn't repent of today, and to live a decent life of learning and service.

And, Jesus, help someone know there is a difference between being forgiven a lifestyle of foolish sins and of indebtedness from years spent apart from knowing You — a difference between that and living responsibly in You as a well-raised adult.

And help someone know only You know the answers to our every prayer, including prayers about why some current accounts need paying, despite account expenses being the result of vandalism, and despite past sins having been forgiven.

Thank You, Jesus, for teaching us diplomacy in matters of family stress. Thank you, Lord, for saying that, if a brother has ought against You, work on your brother problem first, then work on your offering.

Lord, thank you for the song lyric that says, "Can we just go back to the way we were: ... a time when brothers were each others keepers [and] sisters held each other close till there was nothing left between them." So that — regardless of any neighbors' or any church's fault — not one more should pass to Heaven with any question about a handbag between a loved one and Thee.

Amen.

Being His hands and feet, isn't living life distant or numb to responsibility.

~

* In Philippians 3, the apostle who traveled and formed churches far from Israel, spoke of obtaining a bodily resurrection the way Jesus did. That was something he hoped for, but he realized bodily resurrection isn't what's promised. So, he spoke of being an example — thankful for God's righteousness in other ways. And I know what he meant.

I'm here to tell you, I don't want any bodily resurrection. When God calls me home, at the right time (hopefully long from now), that's the righteous promise I will want.