These hands of mine
Small but strong
Not pretty like my mother’s Simile
But worn with anxious days, wringing
Tiny crescent moon smiles Personification
Giving testament to my failed attempts to be habit-breaking
These are the hands of someone who has felt her heart aching
No, not pretty like my mother’s Simile
But they are something
They are a wonder
They’ve been rejected, refused
Trapped and used
These war-torn hands have held onto baggage for years
They have balled up and clung to my fears
Secure in the familiar, in the pushing away
Not pretty like my mother’s
But these hands have prayed
Night after night and day after day
For someone to gently coax them
Into letting go and letting in a love that doesn’t mean pain
To drop the inhibitions
To let the walls crumble away
No, not pretty like my mother’s Simile
But my hand displays something precious
On this finger is a symbol of a love that will never fade
Of a promise that we made
And a reminder of what it took for God to bring me here
He held them to lift me out of my brokenness
All that heartache that made me appreciate what it is to love and be loved truly Metaphor
He saw them while I kneeled with palms pressed, pilgrim’s kiss
He heard and answered my prayers for the man who would awaken my heart again
And He blessed the moment when he slipped the ring on my finger
And asked that beautiful question
Oh, these hands
No, not pretty like my mother’s Simile
But they are mine and soon they’ll be his
Infinite blessed happiness
I thank God for that
And I thank God for them