Being the Hands of Jesus

Being the Hands of Jesus

My three daughters and I took a walk this week to look at a nest I’d found on a hike the week before.

It was a simple nest, woven around such a spindly branch, it seemed impossible it could support the nest’s weight if a bird actually laid her eggs there.

But I remember, all too well, the childlike fascination surrounding nature’s “treasures,” so off we went. We were hopscotching the narrow, wet-weather creek when I looked to the right and saw a dying tree—as straight and unadorned as a telephone pole—that had fallen in the crook of a healthy tree, which completely supported its weight.

I stood there and pointed out the trees to the girls, but they didn’t understand the significance. At the time, I didn’t understand it myself.

That changed this morning when I received an email from a woman I met at our church in Wisconsin. She is 5’ tall and weighs less than a hundred pounds. She wears a uniform of zippered vests and straight leg jeans with hiking boots. She walks and speaks with authority, and at first I thought she might be pretty hard around the edges.

I had no idea that zippered hiking vest concealed a heart of gold.

I first glimpsed that heart when, after my husband’s surgery, this woman came out to our little farm with bags of groceries. I had been down at the barn when she came, and I remember hiking up to the house in my red Bogs boots, feeling shy because this woman and I hadn’t exchanged more than a few words.

But then, in our kitchen, I looked at everything she had brought—a variety pack of Chobani yogurts, granola, fresh fruit, good bread—and I looked over at her. Our eyes met in the dim light, and I began to understand that I had falsely judged her.

That I didn’t even know who she was.

Over the next year and a half, I learned that this woman cared for the sick, distributed food to the poor, opened her house to the lonely, and generally filled any gaps that arose. In such a short time, she became a life-long role model and friend.

When she found out we were moving back to Tennessee, she clutched me in her wiry little arms and fiercely whispered that she would miss us.

I still miss her, too.

This woman is again caring for the sick, but this time, it’s one of her dearest friends: a fellow member of the Wisconsin congregation who is dying of cancer. I could hear the woman’s strong voice through her email, and tears flooded my eyes as I recalled the many times she had stood at the front of the church and given announcements or drawn attention to a community need.

Some could say this woman is a Martha more than a Mary, but I tell you, this world needs both. We need men and women who will organize meals, change sheets, drive to doctor’s appointments, dispense medications, sing hymns, wipe brows . . . hold hands.

Later today, while I stood in the kitchen, imaging everything taking place in a little home six-hundred miles from here, that image came back to me of those two trees: one supporting the other, even though the healthy tree suffered from the weight.

I want to be this woman. I want to be a Mary, who sits at the feet of Jesus, but I also want to be a Martha who is willing to be His hands.

How are you going to “hold up” a brother or a sister this week?