The hands of Jesus reached out in love to the sick, the blind, and the tormented and broke bread to feed the five thousand. These working hands, which touched the lives of many, reached the whole world at the ultimate price of love. They became pierced on the cross, dripping with blood for our redemption.
We could all be better at interrupting our schedules or putting down the phone to take notice of someone, especially in our homes. Many adults and children aren’t good at asking for our attention like a spoiled house dog. And at a certain point, after many failed attempts, the ones trying to get someone to notice them give up.
In my mind, I’m still 35 years old. I am actually 65, but I am often lulled into believing I have a long runway ahead of me with plenty of years left to fly. Even though I try to avoid thinking about my age, my brain won’t let me stay in denial very long and reminds me of my true timeline. Pat and I have been married for forty years. I’m the mother of three grown sons, mother-in-law to precious Angela, and ‘Nonie’ to my beloved granddaughter, Evie.
I have a growing collection of landscapes displayed around the house. Mountains and waterfalls, oceans, deserts with palm trees of my son’s creation. The other day, I found him leading his little sister in a painting class of sorts. I glanced up from homeschooling planning as he modeled how to sketch the snowy peaks of mountaintops and paint the triangular trees below. My daughter followed and painted a picture resembling her older brothers. Both landscapes are currently displayed beside each other on the fridge for all to marvel at.
I am reminded of a Tim Keller tweet: “When I am bitter and unforgiving, what I am really saying in my heart is, ‘I am better than you as I would never do what you just did.’” My response to someone with whom I disagree might be something like the second extreme above. Keller’s comment indicates that my religious performance of finger-pointing reveals that I need to refrain from being Judgmental Janet.