Her hands were weathered, crooked with age, perfectly manicured, and beautiful. I watched as this older, gray-headed woman lifted her hands in worship to our Father. I wondered where those hands had been, how they had served. I wondered how many meals they had cooked, babies they had held, band-aids they had applied, loads of laundry they had folded. I wondered how many tears they had wiped, bills they had paid, letters they had written, prayers they had prayed. I secretly hoped my hands would have the privilege of living that long. So long that they, too, would be wrinkled and matured. I secretly hoped that they would still have the courage after all the years of joy accompanied with pain to be lifted up in worship to my King. Then my mind went to contemplating how God saw those hands – reaching up to Him and for that moment being pure. Being holy. Against all fear, against all the reasons to be unfaithful, against the world, her hands were held as high as she could get her body to make them go. She didn’t care who saw her. She didn’t care what people thought. She was present with her Lord giving Him the heart felt praise He deserves. She was inspiring.
When a child reaches up for their parent or loved one, they need something. They need comfort, love, attention, to be fed. It’s a tremendously vulnerable place to be. Humble and in need. If you have never lifted your hands to God, it will change you. Even if you privately worship Him in this way, it will change you. It is a beautiful, peaceful, cleansing place to be. Nothing else seems to matter in that moment. Just Him. And just you.
May He bless you as you worship Him no matter the age of your holy hands,
“I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands.” Psalm 63:4