Hands and Feet

A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" for a group of seniors at a retirement home ... and what an incredible experience that was. Watching those older folks dance and laugh and eat and have fun was a true blessing to me, and taking both posed prom photos and spontaneous shots was an absolute blast. I took over 2,000 photos that evening, and it was that night that I got the idea for a book filled with photos ... photos of people's hands and feet. I know that sounds a bit odd, but if you think about it, our hands and feet tell the stories of where we've been and what we've done in life. So over the last years, I've compiled quite a collection of photos of hands and feet ... pudgy little baby feet, worn and calloused older hands, mud-covered teenaged feet, tender gentle hands of a new mom. And maybe someday ... maybe someday, I'll put those photos into a book ... maybe someday.

It's cold here in Kansas, and cold weather now means a couple of things to me ... my feet hurt more than they usually do, and my hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. So yesterday as I walked with Ollie in the cold air (don't worry, he was bundled up in his sweater and down jacket), I was pretty focused on my hands and feet. And as I felt the pain in my aching feet and the roughness of the gloves on my dry hands, I began to think about how we as Christians are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those around us. With each labored step I took, I realized how much I have missed it over the years, how very much I have failed to understand what it means to allow Him to use my hands to minister to others or to guide my feet in the paths that He desires for me to walk.

By the time Ollie and I reached the place on the trail where we turn to head home, I realized that God had once again chosen to use our time on the path to speak to me and impart yet another lesson to me. It is always humbling to me when His voice to me is so clear, when His love for me is so intense, when His presence around me is so real. Being the hands and feet of Jesus, I thought, the hands and feet of Jesus. What does that mean ... what does that really mean? It means stepping outside of my comfort zone ... it means loving the unlovable ... it means going the extra mile to help another ... it means there should be no judgmental attitude within me ... it means hugging someone who is lonely ... it means caring for someone who is sick ... it means reading to someone who can't read ... it means including someone who has no one ... it means comforting someone who has been abandoned ... it means feeding someone who is hungry ... it means so much more than going to church on Sundays, caring only about those whom I deem worthy or acceptable, convincing myself that I shouldn't worry about the pain or hurt in the eyes of the person sitting right next to me who is struggling to get through one more day. Being the hands and feet of Jesus means so much more than I ever understood before.

When I got home and peeled off all the layers of clothing I had put on to walk outside in the cold, a thought crashed into my mind and caused tears to spring to my eyes. The hands and feet of Jesus, friends, were pierced with spikes ... pierced with spikes as He was placed upon the cross ... pierced with spikes because of His love for me. The hands and feet of Jesus ... so much more than I ever understood before.

"Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered Him punished by God, stricken by Him, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:4-5