Hands don’t lie. I can hide behind makeup that covers my age lines. I can hide behind a new hairstyle that disguises my grays. I can hide behind a new outfit that hides where the extra weight sits on my body. But, still my hands don’t lie.

Hands seem to reveal age. The skin gets thinner, the indentions and wrinkles accumulate, and they become more stiff. The nails become brittle and discolored, the palms have more lines of a hard life lived. They mock me in the way they morph to a less desirable appearance. 

Hands seem to indicate a past. A past of holding babies, picking up toys, wiping tears, and years of diaper changes. A past of holding hands, throwing balls, and building forts. A past of constantly being needed. They remind me of what my life was like in the years before.

Hands seem to be marked by work. Faithful labor that served my family and others. Emptying the dishwasher, trimming the bushes, and sweeping the floor. Carrying grocery bags, making dinners, and writing to-do lists. They tell stories of toil in their ache at the end of the day. 

Hands don’t lie. They remind us of the fate of mortality and that one day these hands will cease to serve me. And yet, there is hope. The hands that struggled in exertion will meet the hands of their Savior. Our hands will meet the hands that were pierced for our transgressions- hands that were spread on the cross for you and for me. 

Today, I will choose to give thanks for my hands. The hands my Creator gave me to work are the same hands that are meant to be lifted in praise. The hands my Father gave me to labor are the same hands that are meant to be open in prayer. The hands my Provider gave me to love others are the same hands that are meant to cling to His promises. 

My hands are marked by wrinkles, His hands are marked by nails. Hands don’t lie.