Hands

She stood waiting for Him. When He came near she noticed how unflinching his gaze was.

"Let me see your hands," He said.

Her eyes widened.

"My hands?"

"Yes."

Slowly she held out her hands. He took hers in His and scrutinized them.

"Your hands look dirty," He said.

A blush crept up her neck.

"I cannot get the stains out. It's from working in the garden," she explained.

He nodded.

He continued to look closely her hands.

He indicated a partially healed mark.

"What happened here?"

" The burn?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I was cooking and touched a hot pan."

"And the scar?"

She thought it was such a tiny scar that no one would notice, but He did.

"I was washing windows and one broke."

"Why are your hands wet?" He asked.

"A little boy fell over there," she gestured, "just a moment ago. I was waiting for You and had nothing else to wipe his tears with, so I used my hands."

"The garden," He said, "Was it my garden you were working in?"

"Why, yes Lord, it was," she said.

"Were you cooking for My servant when you burnt your hand?"

"Yes Lord," she said, remembering that she had been.

"This scar," He held up her hand, "Were you washing windows in the house built for those who come to hear of Me?"

She nodded.

"And these tears here in your palm, are they the tears of one of My lambs?"

"Yes Lord," she whispered.

"Beloved," He said to her, "You have the most beautiful hands."