All posts tagged: hands

These 33-year-old hands

I’m looking at my hands in the shower as the water runs over them, filling up the liminal lines, smoothing the ridges, the whorls that make up the unique geography of my skin. These 33-year-old hands. I’m thinking that 33 is how old Jesus was when he died. It’s a sobering thought. Who he is, who I am. What he was prepared to die for, what I am prepared to die for. His ministry, my ministry. His relationship with Father, my relationship with Father. His body, my body. And our hands. My hands; they smooth out sheets… spread peanut butter sandwiches… stick Star Wars bandaids on knees… tap-tap-tap on computer keys… swipe hair from eyes… stir soup… grip steering wheel… cup faces. His hands; they gestured in emphasis of teachings… washed dusty feet… brushed tears from eyes… rubbed forehead and temples… clasped tight under a murmuring mouth… stroked the fetlock of a donkey… turned tables over… ripped bread in two… comforted. His hands invited brute nails through flesh and bone. I look at my own pale …

Just Call Me OH&S Officer on Steroids

I am Mother. And I am Risk Assessment Officer. As mum to an adventurous toddler and his equally daring baby sister, I have discovered a habit that I’ve yet to decide whether is newly acquired or some kind of primal maternal behavior. Perhaps it’s just plain evidence of madness. In every context where my children are present (or will be), my mind darts ahead, scanning for hazards. You may as well just hand me one of those risk assessment forms – although I feel certain my process would be more thorough. An example? Hubby and I were going to bed – clearing the benches and switching lights off – when I noticed a packet of lollies on the table. I picked it up and stashed it in a cupboard up high so the first thing consumed the next morning wouldn’t be the equivalent of 48 teaspoons of sugar. Then the RAO in me took over. What if our capable toddler pulls a stool over to the cupboard? What if he stands on that stool, and …