I’m 4 or 5 years old.  Sleeping in my bed, surrounded by my favorite stuffed animals.  My dog, Ray (named after my grandmother’s dog).  A large stuffed tiger.  A bunny.

The next thing I know I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.

My mother rushes in to comfort me.  “It’s only a nightmare.  I know it’s scary, but it’s not real.  I’m here with you now.  I’ll protect you.”

She sits on the bed, puts my head in her lap, and strokes my hair until I calm down and can go back to sleep.

And she does this over and over.  Every time I wake up screaming from a nightmare.  Stroking my hair.  Comforting me.

I’m 32 years old.  At a party with friends.  We’re playing a game.  Everyone sits in a circle.  One person is blindfolded.  They are meant to go around the circle and touch each person’s hands until they come to their own partner’s hands.  The idea is to see how well we actually know our partner.  What happens when we remove our sight from the equation?

As soon as I touch them, I can instantly tell Jerry’s hands.  It’s as if an electric spark passes between us.  I can feel the juxtaposition of smooth and rough.  The tiny hairs on a few knuckles.  Their tender strength.  As soon as I touch Jerry’s hands, it’s like coming home.

Because we’ve touched hands to many times.  In fact, every chance we get.  In tenderness, comfort, protection, joy, and love.  I know those hands better than I know my own.

I’m 54.  Feeling at the end of myself.  Relying on family and friends for food, cleaning, never-ending trips to doctors.  My faith is challenged to the point where I feel as though I’m falling off a cliff.

And then I picture Jesus.  Washing the feet of his disciples.  The dusty feet that walked everywhere in sandals.  Touching the eyes of a blind man to make him see.  Gathering little children to him instead of shooing them away.

The children are crowding around, a few on his lap.  His hands reaching out to bless each one.  So they know he sees them.  I see myself there too.

My mother.  Jerry.  Jesus.  And so many others.  Offering hands of love.

Helping hands.  Healing hands.  Encouraging hands.

Building a door in my basement. Making food. Hugging.  Applauding.  Guiding me to the right path.

Hands of love.

I couldn’t live without them.  And neither can you.

In fact, I wrote a song called “Hands of Love”.  If you want to listen a clip of it, you can click here.

How can you be love for someone today?  How can you use your hands to say, “I see you.  I care about you.  You matter.”?

I’d love it if you’d share a story of your own.  About someone who offered hands of love to you, or you to another.  And how it made you feel.  To share, leave a comment underneath this post, or on my Facebook page.