These hands are tired
from packing and unpacking,
from wiping tears away
and pushing myself back up from the ashes.
These hands are stained
with ink from my pen
scribbling notes and quotes,
reflections and dreams.
These hands are folded
in prayer for compassion and courage,
hope and healing
for my life and for the world.
These hands are calloused
from gripping handlebars on a Sunday,
rope on a Monday
with every callous, stronger and more resilient.
These hands are open, just open
no longer clinging to what I once needed,
or grasping at what I imagine I want,
or pushing away what I don’t understand.
These hands are outstretched
to new friends found outside my comfort zone,
offering a fist bump after an impossible workout
and a shaka before climbing that last muddy hill.
These hands are not pretty
and these nails are not polished
any longer, for the color chipped
swiftly off in this adventure of loving life.
These hands are strong
enough to strike a blow when life is a battlefield,
and cling to my faith when doubt
These hands are
lifting yours up when life drags you under,
reaching for yours when the darkness is too much
and behind these hands beats an open heart.
These hands are yours
hold them if you can.