Paint on My Hands

I just realized it's been more than two weeks since I posted something here. I'm not exactly sure where the time went, although I suspect it got sucked into the vortex that's been whirling by a lot more frequently.

At the moment I'm looking down at my hand. A smattering of paint decorates my palm. (Okay, so I looked before I started typing.) The skew white line looks a bit like an upside-down exclamation mark looking for its blobby point. I smile.

Paint on my hands makes me happy. Right now the splotches remind me of this afternoon. Ashlie and I spent some time painting the sign at the entrance to the yard. Goodness knows it needed some attention. A glance at the faded, peeling paint would make you think you were entering "Island" instead of "Island View." But freshly scraped, with two coats of paint, it's looking much more respectable.

There's just something so refreshing about the outdoors. Even something like slapping a coat of white paint onto a slab of cement can be a rejuvenating experience when you add the sporadic twitter of birds, afternoon sunshine, and a gentle breeze. Ah, life in the country!

So yeah, I really don't care about my splotchy hand. Being somewhat of an artist, I associate paint on my hands with creativity and fun. It evokes happy memories, and sometimes I'm even sorry when it dissolves away after a shift at the kitchen sink.

I didn't really have a purpose or conclusion in mind when I started rambling about paint. But as I sit here toying with thoughts and words, I remember Someone else who has marks on His hands. Unlike mine, His can never be washed away. They are there forever. And when He looks at them, they bring to His mind suffering, agony--and me.

Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands. ~Isaiah 49:15, 16

To think that the marks in the hands of the God of the universe remind Him of me!