Hands. 

He had such ugly hands. Mine never seemed to fit them quite right. Did it matter ? Of course it didn’t. Ah, young love. I suppose at the time I found them beautiful. Those long, bony hands. They weighed a thousand pounds. Heavy on the skin. Such ugly hands that came upon me and taught me everything I know. Worthless. Two hands, ten knuckles; bruise after bruise after bruise. Large hands, but all the while so small when compared to everything else in life. And yet those hands could do so much. They were unusually gifted at knocking one hundred and sixty pounds of a naive, teenage girl to the ground. Young, beautiful love. In the folds of his hands. In the wrinkles and the lines. In the fingerprints that made him uniquely his own. Those hands taught me that love is anger. That love is destruction. That a relationship should always consist of manipulation, tears, and inescapable fear. The trifecta. Callus, angry hands. The perfect size to stretch around my neck and muffle my cries. Did you know that bruises are anything but easy to disguise ? Those heavy, heavy hands that pinned me to the ground. Hands that violated a part of me that didn’t belong to them. A part of me meant for someone else. Ugly hands, they were. Flesh against flesh, I grew used to it. I mean, I deserved it, right ? It was my fault he had a hole the size of the moon right smack dab in the middle of his heart and the only way he knew how to fill it was with anger, aggression, and affliction. But those hands loved me, didn’t they ? Of course. Look at all the things they taught me. That I would never amount to anything. That no one would really care about me. That beauty was not mine. That in letting him go, I’d trade out those hands that weighed a thousand pounds for some baggage that weighed a thousand more. That once the dust settled, once the sound of his fists against my bare skin stopped ringing in my ears, once those ugly hands were gone, I’d find a much nicer pair.

He has such beautiful hands. They always seem to fit mine just right. Does it matter ? Of course it does. Amazing love. I suppose there was a time I didn’t find them beautiful. No, I take that back. They always were. But, I know there was a time I ran from them. Those perfect, marvelous hands. Hands that reached out to me when I needed them the most…and when I wanted them the least. Special hands. They bore two cold nails and all the sins of the world. Such beautiful hands that gently came upon me and showed me everything I needed to see. Large hands. Hands that could hold all the Heavens and still have room to hold my heart. They were gifted with a healing touch. Sweet, sweet love. I learned everything I needed to know in the folds of His hands. In the wrinkles and the lines. In the holiness that makes Him Lord. Those hands taught me that love is sacrifice. Love is complete devotion. That a relationship should always consist of patience, kindness, and forgiveness. Bloody, broken hands. The perfect size to take my place. Those lovely, magnificent hands that carried me gently through the darkest of nights. Hands that dug deep, deep down inside my soul and removed all the clutter. Hands that offered to be my baggage claim. I deserved it, right ? To know a love as sweet as His ? No, but I praise Him that by His grace and mercy I do. My Savior’s hands. They love me, don’t they ? Of course they do; the gaping holes in each of them are proof enough. In His hands I’ve found true love.

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