My HANDS

I looked at my hands and wondered why they were so rough and at the same time I realised that maybe these rough hands did suite me; with all the work that I do.

I imagined myself with dainty, soft and frail hands, tinted with a light pink colour, but that image quickly disappeared;

because those were not my hands

Those were not the hands that told the story of how hard I had worked.

Those dainty soft hands, did not tell the story

of how much and how long I had toiled.

Those hands that had never seen a day of

work or hardship were not mine.

And now I will dare not envy those smooth

soft hands, because I want to hold, share and own my story.

Because my story is a part of me.

My story is something I hold dearly and one

that I do not intend to throw away, hide or replace.

These are my hands.

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

Romans 5 : 3 - 5