Papa’s Hands

Some things cannot be mended by striving hands.

Some doors will never open because we pound upon them.

Some hearts grow quieter the tighter we hold them.

But place them into the hands of the Gardener…

There, roots drink unseen. There, winter softens. There, hard ground breaks without the sound of our labor.

What we cannot heal, He can touch.

What we cannot carry, He can bear.

What we cannot change, He can gently transform.

The seed never strains to become an oak.

It simply rests where faithful hands have planted it.

So today, I loosen my grip.

Not because it matters less, but because it matters too much to trust to anyone but Him.

During the loneliest of nights, flowers placed in Papa’s hands still bloom.

For the hands that fashioned the stars are never careless even with a single seed.

Whatever He holds is never abandoned.

It is being prepared for the perfect season.

To reveal the beauty only Papa’s hands could ever redeem.