The Palm of His Hand

Some time ago, a friend posted a graphic on Facebook that had the phrase "God has you in the palm of His hand", or something similar.  I've heard this my whole life, but that day I actually cupped my hand and looked at it, studied it, and this is what I saw.

My hands are rough things.  They are scarred and textured, rough and calloused from use.  My hands shovel dirt, rake yards, paint walls, hang drywall. They cook meals and wash the dishes that multiply in the sink.  These hands sew clothing, wash cloth diapers and mountains of laundry, sweep floors, scrub tubs and dust furniture.  They bandage scraped knees, wipe away tears, rub backs and hold story books.  My hands love.

Looking at my cupped hand, I realized that despite how little it is in comparison to the Creator’s, it overflowed with immeasurable love. 

I imagined God's enormous hands, how incredibly big they are, so vast that they hold the universe with room to spare.  And despite how small I am in comparison, He loves me and shelters me in the palm of His hand.

Being in God's hands is a great place to be.  There I can find shelter and love, protection and security.  For those of us that love the Lord and know His Son, Jesus is clear, saying, "I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.  My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father's hand.  I and the Father are one."  (John 10: 28-30 NIV)

I observed that a cupped hand is actually a bowl, but it's not a smooth-sided vessel.  There are bumps and ridges, hills and valleys, dips and heights.  In places it looked to me that my hand held plateaus and canyons, and just like in life, there were very few straightaways. 

God promises that he holds me in His hands.  The truth of the matter is that I may be at the top of His hands, standing on a fingertip, or clinging to the cliff of a knuckle.  I might be lounging on the meaty part of the base of His thumb.  Or I may be at the bottom, rock bottom, flat out on the floor of His gracious palm. 

I've found myself rock-bottomed out, huddled and crying, beaten and exhausted.  But then I looked at my hand.  Where is the safest part of a hand when it's cupped?  The bottom.  It's at this place that God shelters us the most, so that we can get up safely, pull ourselves together and start living in His palm. 

I find myself climbing to the top, scaling the bumps and valleys along the way, rising and falling, living and learning.  I continually strive, challenge myself, test my mettle, like a toddler yelling, "I'll do it myself!"  And I get to that high place, where life is good and I can see for miles.

And inevitably, a strong wind will knock me down, and I tumble down the mountainside, hitting every pebble, rock and boulder along the way, until sliding to a rest at the bottom again, bruised and battered, bleeding and torn.  And I ask myself, what's the point?

Maybe the point is that the heights are a dangerous place to be, the most vulnerable for God's children.  Why do I try to climb out of His hand and make it on my own?  The bottom of His caring and loving hand is the safest place to be, when I am at my lowest and totally dependent on His love to get me through.  Maybe rock-bottom is where I need to build my home, sheltered in a hand that protects my soul.

“That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”  2 Corinthians 12:10