A tiny verse stopped me today - Matthew 8:15: Peter's mother-in-law had a fever in bed. I would think that Jesus would touch her head to heal it; don’t we always feel the head for a fever? But, no, Jesus touched her HAND. Hands are intimate. I remember one time telling a friend that I get afraid to touch people's hands in fear of being misinterpreted based on my past. Yet, my love language is touch. I vividly remember her taking my hand and just holding it. My heavens, I thought I would die but she just stayed with me until I could receive!
Typing is much faster, but all of my poetry stems from the pen in my hand. Jesus holds us in His hands. I thought about hands. They are a deep part of expression in language; they connect people; and, they also can point the finger. I used to clinch my hands when I got scared or insecure (probably subconsciously still do!). Hands always tell a story. I know my hands are linked to my heart.
When we see Jesus, we will see hands that tell a huge story of the cross. The woman with the fever did not just get healed from a fever, but Jesus gave her His heart through His hands. What an intimate moment. I realized today that the only way Jesus can take my hand is for it to be emptied of whatever is in it so there is no compromised grasp on my part. First He took my hand and then, as with my friend, I yielded to the embrace and responded in kind to hold on to Him.
I hope you are as blessed as I was. It made me cry!