The Hands of God 

Because I am a covenant child, I believe
that God carved my name on His palms
Long before the nails did their damage.
But I’d like to see that for myself one day--
My name protected by mangling nail scars.
Astonishing!

I’ve thought about His hands a lot.
Over time I have discovered
that I would receive everything
I needed to live from those hands, and yet,
many, many times I have also
desperately prayed that those hands
were filtering out the particular
"worst case scenarios" which happened to be
tormenting my imagination at the moment
before they could rain down like shrapnel knives
to shred my hopes.

I’ve felt I could heap things there too.
Fears, dreams, longings, trust,
rejections, anger , confusion, questions,
thankfulness.

Regularly, although sometimes reluctantly,
I have also entrusted those I love into His hands.
Gingerly, like I would hand over
pure crystal glass,
fragile and precious.
Eager to caution and anxiously remind Him--
yes, even remind God
whose breath shaped their lives from the beginning--
to "handle with care."
I hold my breath, almost afraid to let go
until I’m assured that he has a good grasp.
You know?
Astonishingly He puts up with that from me.

And then,
I have let those hands take my own,
forged at the time into determined fists,
to express my personal, immutable assessment--
my own signature "grip on reality"--
and massage some grace back into them.

I know I’m supposed to be living
somewhere past Thomas.
but to tell the truth,
one day I, too, want to see the hands of God.

                                Rev. Shirley Heeg

Dear Shirley...

I suspected that my Sunday School teacher had lined up the small, plaster statues on the windowsill while we were singing in the big room.  This was the last session of the year so they would be her parting gifts to us, her 4th grade students.  I can’t remember all of them, but I do remember the one that would become mine — a polar bear.  Even as I balanced it gingerly on my lap during the car ride home, I wondered what this had to do with the Bible.  Maybe Noah’s ark?  Hmm…I was skeptical.  Nothing to do with Jesus.  Or Mary or Joseph.  Or Father Abraham.  Or Moses.  A polar bear made me think of snow – but in June?  Looking closely, I could see that he had sculptured fur as chalky white as my teacher’s hair.  Maybe it was a reminder of her?  

Or was he more like me?  What I remember most about my bear is that he didn’t fit in.  He was an unfinished ceramic piece, neither painted nor kiln-dried.  His pudgy body was an awkward shape to carry around.  Nevertheless, he moved in with me and spent the next few years gazing out from my bookshelf as if trying to see into the distance, into the future.  I liked him.  I have no idea what became of him, but the incongruities still fascinate me.  I guess it's hard to predict what you might take away from Sunday School.  



I did all the regular Sunday School things.  I memorized bible verses to earn my bookmark.  (The bible was a gift, like Grace.)  I was Mary in the Christmas pageant one year.  (Mom told me to sit still and definitely not to scratch anywhere!)  I liked to sing.  I paid attention.  I wondered about a lot of things, most of which were eventually explained to me.  But one of the best things that happened in Sunday School was taking home a weekly magazine called Junior Life.  When I was ten, I sent in my name and address with some information about myself, and — wonder of wonders — it was published!  From that time on, I had penpals!



What follows may seem as unlikely an outcome from attending Sunday School as coming home with a polar bear.  One by one, penpal letters also moved in with me, crammed into a letter rack on the wall or the drawer in my bed stand.  They came from boys as well as girls and from far away as well as close to home.  My little red spiral notebook held addresses from Endwell, New York; Dallas, Texas; Mayville, New York; Woodston, New Jersey; Ashville, New York; Firestone, Colorado; Milford, Illinois; Busselton, West Australia; Fort Smith, Arkansas; Essie, Kentucky; Taranaki, New Zealand; Detroit, Michigan; Frandon, Illinois; Oil City, Pennsylvania; Perkin, Illinois; Ventura, California; Rouseville, Pennsylvania; Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin; Fort Pierre, South Dakota; Fort Smith, Arkansas; Woodstown, New Jersey; Lamar, Missouri; Longmont, Colorado; and a couple from Accra, Ghana.    



Because of these letters, I saved my allowance for stamps; I put stationery on my birthday wish list; I spun the globe on my desk tilting my head to hunt for place names on colored shapes; I curled up on the porch swing with friends I’d never meet; I improved my handwriting; I decorated envelopes with slogans like “Friends-4-Ever” or “2good 2be 4gotten.”  And I joined the world, so loved by God.  



Some correspondences were short-term.  I don’t remember how they ended, much the same way I don’t remember the last time I played with my Terri-Lee doll or put a cassette in the tape deck.  Yet, Sherry and I corresponded for fifty years.  I met her only once when my family was traveling through her area on vacation and her mom and dad invited us for supper.  We were thirteen, I think.  I’d recognize her anywhere though because I have her school photos stashed away in a box along with newspaper clippings she sent me of the Beatles' first visit to the USA.  As we grew up together, our letters grew up with us.  Topics changed from “What have you been doing?” to “What do you think about…?” or, “Have you ever…?”  We got to the heart of things.  We both became teachers, she in elementary, me in secondary, and we exchanged notes about that – literally.  And about the boys we dated, the men we married, the uncertainties that came with pregnancy, parenting, relocating, celebrations, and sadness.  Surprisingly perhaps, we were able to be there for each other without physically being with each other.  I wondered if maybe Jesus felt the same closeness when sending the Holy Spirit to keep in touch.

Penpals have each other’s full attention simply because you can’t read a letter with your eyes wandering.  Sometimes you can’t read a letter from a friend without them tearing up either.  When she knew she was dying of cancer, Sherry sent me one last email: “Meet you in paradise.” She didn’t have to say anything more.  



You probably don’t want to get me started on Sunday School gifts.  (But I’m glad someone did!)

Make something of this.

"Make something of this."  Where I come from, those words could sound like a challenge, preceded by “Oh, yeah?”  Or, perhaps, a despondent muttering, preceded by “How am I ever supposed to…?”  Or well-intended words of encouragement, preceded by “I’m sure you can…” and a patronizing smile.  And all of the above would be wrong because I am not the maker.  

Make the most of it.
Make the best of it.
Make what you will of it.

These are the unspoken assumptions behind the prayers I’ve said morning, noon, and night, tumbling out from my shaky life, as a child, young woman, adult.

Make the most of it.  Such are the prayers we wrap around newborns and pat on the heads of children, aren't they?  Please God, make the most of this child’s life as it plays out, day by growing day.  Where will this lead?  What’s out there?  Let tomorrow be good, God.  May this timid choice become confident.  These first steps lead somewhere grand.  Make the most of this potential.  Let it lead somewhere bright.

And when life compromises our ideal hopes, when I have examined boundaries too closely or picked at sores, when I've careened around dangerously with my inflated air-head, rescue me.  Please.  I've prayed such desperate prayers for damage control in the midst.  Fix my mess.  Help me never to go there again!  Give me another chance.  Incredibly, even then, I dare ask -- no, I dare grasp -- for the best.  We say, "I guess you'll just have to make the best of it," with a tone of resignation. But I’ve heard, God, that you don’t just patch together a semblance and send me out to try again, but rather that you can remake the whole kit and caboodle into a new best.  Oh, do your reversal thing the way you do, God.   Then, as I wait and hold my own breath, a whisper awakens my inner ear.  Perhaps what I want, others might need too.

And now that I’m old?  No one told me this, but I’ve seen it dozens of times:  a faithful light shines in the eyes of a wrinkled, age-speckled face.  Famous last words form a prayer, "Make what you will of it all."  Of what I accomplished, what I left undone, where I hurried, where I lingered.  Of my dreams.  Of my words.  Of my intent.  Of what this all means, of where it’s headed.  I ask not for legacy, nor for reputation, rather, to wrap it up as I turn in my keys.  It’s the prayer of someone who trusts God enough to loosen her grip and let go.  It’s the amazing conclusion that Jesus came to on that last night: make what you will of it, of it all.

These three prayers are the dialogue that has enabled me to go on when I was scared.  These are the captions beneath the photos I snapped, the postscripts scrawled on the backside of the cards I dropped in the mail to my lifelong pen-pal Jesus along the way.  They form my final answer to why. 

They are not words of advice or provocation.  They are not purpose statements or encouraging slogans.  Please, don’t paint them on a board to hang in the den or tattoo them on your wrist.  They are not directions for your life.  

They are prayers.  

They are what blessings are made of.  

Because God is the maker. 

Lord, make the most of it.
Lord, make the best of it.
Lord, make what you will of it.  

SH