I was eight or nine when we went to the stream. It was wider and the rushing current was stronger than the smaller creeks that I was used to. We played, my small friends and I, splashing in the pools and then riding the "rapids" down the sluicing flow of water only to scramble back to the beginning and do it again. We played for hours with our mothers sitting alongside the creek. I'm sure they were talking and chatting just as I do now, but their conversation was interrupted. The slippery rocks had gotten the best of me and I had fallen, slicing open the palm of my hand as well as my knee. They bundled me up, took me home, and after checking out my hand concluded that the inch long slice didn't warrant stitches.
My left hand still bears the scar of that day many years ago. It lies flat against my skin having faded with age, yet every time I look at it I can feel the slippery solidity of the rock beneath my hand, see the thicker blood mixing with the thinning water, swirling off my hand and feel the sharp pricks of pain in my hand.
Yesterday was Palm Sunday and as we gear up for Easter I am wondering what Jesus sees and feels when He looks at His hands. When he takes in the scars that stem from the day He took my sins, the day He changed my life forever.
The song When Love Sees You, sung by Mac Powell pretty much sums it up in my opinion.
I found the idea for our hands here.