"You received the Spirit of sonship (adoption), and by him we
cry, 'Abba, Father.'"
Long fingers, veins bulging a bit on the backs, knuckles slightly swollen, brown spots and other tell-tale aging signs. "These hands look like someone else's hands," I mused, as I looked down. "For sure, they look like my father's hands."
It would be great if my hands would stay as busy as my father's did, as long as he lived. There was always something to do, a few weeds that needed pulling, patches of peeling paint that needed sanding and touching up, pantry items to be shared with a neighbor. Each morning those hands held the Bible, as he read the large print. And every day his hands were postured in prayer, probably more than once.
While I was thinking of my father's hands, I thought of a song written by Amy Grant, called "Father's Eyes": She's got her father's eyes Her father's eyes Eyes that find the good in things When good is not around Eyes that find the source of help, when help just can't be found Eyes full of compassion, seein' every pain Knowing what you're going through, and feelin' it the same Just like my father's eyes
I don't have my father's blue eyes, but I sure would love to have my Father's Eyes, like the lyrics describe. When I look at my hands perhaps I can think of how really great it would be to see situations, and others, through our heavenly Father's eyes of never-ending love.
Irish Thursday Inspirational Messages, Sally I. Kennedy
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