These Little Hands
His hands are perfect, this little individual. He uses them to play. You can see him on the floor in the living room pushing his cars around imagining the city that he has built. The cars go “swoosh” as they race along the streets of that city. And all the while, I am watching his hands. Such an incredible thing his hands are. When he was in his mother’s womb, in the secret of that womb, God was ever developing him. At one point, God sewed him together. But his hands — these little hands — are beautiful.
You can see the fingernails. Sure, he’s a boy, and he has dirt under his fingernails. Those nails allow him to scratch his itch. His fingers are used to run through his hair when he feels the need to spiffy up a bit. He taps them on the table sometimes as a joke waiting for his lunch or dinner. As he’s in the car in the backseat he will touch the glass as he is pointing to something that is interesting to him. And all the while, these little hands, wave to people who are passing by.
These little hands are used to grasp his football. He throws it and it bounces everywhere and the next thing you know, he’s at it again. Picking up the ball and throwing it some more. After his bath, he’s checked over by his father. His father looks at the beauty of God’s creation. He looks at him and notices these little hands. And as he is looking at them, he sees the designs of his fingerprints. They are his fingerprints. No one else in the world, out of seven billion people, have his fingerprints. They swirl. They leave smudges. They are his print in the world.
As I look at these little hands, I cannot help but think:
For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb. I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; wonderful are Your works, and my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth; Your eyes have seen my unformed substance; and in Your book were all written the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them. How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand. When I awake, I am still with You….Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me and know my anxious thoughts; and see if there be any hurtful way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way. (Psalm 139:13-18, 23-24)
These little hands — this little man — are perfect.