Easily Excitable

I didn’t know Mary, vessel of our infant God. 

But I can imagine:

14 years old, maybe older. 

A poor women, far from home- 

A newlywed with a husband she was just getting used to- 

A traveler  on a Holy mission, equipped with a donkey and probably a little confusion she tried to keep silenced. 

I have to think that, at times, it felt like the only thing she truly possessed was Jesus. 

Holy God, set beneath the heart of woman. 

The One whom she would sustain from her own life, both for 9 months and beyond. 

But I have to think when they pulled up to that stable, 

When the time came, 

When the contractions passed,

When the baby was lain on her clammy skin, 

I have to think she did what any mother might do. 

She counted fingers and toes. 

She kissed his warm belly. 

But I have to think she looked down, gently pressing his hands to her nose, 

And I have to think she thought, 

“These are the hands–

These are the hands of the Promise of God. ” 

And they were. 

The hands of Jesus. 

Surely, she marveled at them:

Those little hands, with perfect fingernails- 

Pink, edged with little white moons. 

Unimaginably small,

With knuckles more like dimples.

Surely, she had to think: 

“In me, they grew–

These are the hands.” 

And they were, to be sure. But also? 

These are the hands that motioned mountains skyward, 

That dusted the very same with featherlight snow. 

Those hands that measured out the sea’s water

And drew the boundary it should never pass, 

Those hands that polished on the veneer of an apple

And shattered rocks into infinite grains of sand. 

And yet, those hands that shattered? 

They, too, gently dotted new buds on a springtime tree. 

These are the hands. 

Yet, these are also the hands that, 

At two years of age, were

Chubby, 

Often sticky, 

Sometimes, scraped up. 

These hands reached up for Mary, looking for assurance, 

For comfort, for familiarity, 

For unadulterated love of the purest kind. 

They had fingernails that weren’t quite clean

And extended into tiny, stubby fingers 

That pushed up when his little legs, 

New to walking, 

Would fail him. 

They grabbed bits of bread,

Clasped his favorite blanket,

These are the hands. 

Surely they were. But these hands also? 

They coaxed out the coarse hairs of a lion’s mane, 

And drew the curl in the monkey’s tail. 

These hands crafted the gills that fish could breathe underwater

And placed each leg carefully on the centipede. 

These are those which dotted every gnat (Lord, why?)

And folded the arms of the praying mantis. 

These are the hands. 

However, these are also the hands 

That threw a ball as a 10 year old, 

That wrestled when He was 15. 

These are the hands controlling the fingers traveling the page, 

As the young man grew in his studies. 

These are the hands on the arms that wrapped his mama up in bear hugs, 

The ones that held the lamp for Joseph, 

Heaved boards up and laid them flush. 

The ones that were often covered in dirt.

These are the hands which Mary watched across the table 

As Jesus, growing, demolished his supper.

A layer of callouses beginning to grow:

Almost those of a man, but not quite-

These are the hands. 

And yet: these are the hands that formed those of humanity, 

Painting on the fingerprints: each individual, nearly invisible-

Hands that love detail. 

His were the hands that counted every hair,

Placing them carefully in each pore.

The ones which chose eye color,

And designed the skeleton just so, 

They are those hands that inlaid every cell, 

connected every system, 

And wrapped His prime creation in skin. 

These are the hands. 

But all the same? These are the hands that learned a craft,

Saw a mashed finger here and there,

Were knocked by a mallet or two.

These were covered in sawdust, 

Blisters, 

Maybe a cut or two-

Productive hands. 

But also? 

Surely, they weren’t too busy 

To toss the neighbor children up in the air, 

And catch them, giggling, as they came down.

These are the hands that picked fruit, carried water, fixed furniture. 

These are also the hands that beckoned the disciples come, 

That knocked on his mother’s door when he returned from a trip, 

And held his mother when his earthly father died. 

These are the hands that drew in the sand: 

“Let the one without sin cast the first stone.”

These are the hands that rubbed the holy mix of spit and dirt onto a blind man’s eyes:

“Go and wash.”

These are the hands which laid straight the back of the bent woman:

“Woman, you are set free…”

Miraculous hands, as it would seem. 

Yet- these are normal hands too. 

These are the hands which held children, 

Wiped tears, 

Moved as He spoke, 

Broke bread, both for the 12 and the 5,000.

These are the normal, miraculous hands- 

His skin didn’t glow with divinity: 

There was nothing about His looks that we should admire Him. 

And yet- 

These are the hands. 

These are the hands that were tied together as He was taken. 

The ones that splayed out across dusty sand

As flesh was ripped from his back. 

These are the hands, 

Stretched wide, 

Shaking in agony, 

That were nailed to a sinner’s cross. 

Bones divided by iron, 

Skin punctured, 

Flesh mutilated. 

These are the hands from which my Jesus hung. 

What a wonder. What a Savior. 

Who is this Immanuel?

That the hands that molded mudpies also made the human mind, 

Marking the various cortexes, 

Shaping the different lobes

They crafted wooden tables, yet also, they created the intricate web of the galaxy. 

They might have painstakingly placed the pieces of a puzzle, 

But also, they fit together the layers of the earth.

These are the hands that drop our tears into his bottle.

These are the hands that hold us, cling to us, clutch us to His chest. 

These are the hands, the steady hands, that reach down into the depths.  

With only the desire to pull us out.

His hands:

They celebrate our wins and mourn our losses,

hold us close in our mourning and lead us in our confusion,

and are always faithful to pull us up when we fall. 

How could Mary have known, there as she held her newborn tight, 

Just exactly where those hands would go? 

Just exactly what those hands would do?

The meaning of Christmas is this:

The hand of God- 

Holy, spotless, perfect-

Reached down to grab the hand of humanity-

Vile, wicked, doomed. 

Not that we wanted Him, yet

So mercifully, so graciously, 

He wanted us. 

God’s hands- and yet the hands of a Man, 

What a wonder.

This is our Jesus.