The Hands that Hold

I live in a tension.  A world where I witness and hear of the suffering of people far away, people nearby. I know of the violence and rampage that upends people’s lives. I hear the commentary from the news anchors, from the person in line at the grocery store, the Instagram influencer who posts a message in the midst of her commentary on clothes. And I get overwhelmed.

         Then I go to work, and sit at the bedside of strangers, holding their hands, attached to bodies riddled with disease, people who are often lonely with no one to visit, or loved ones in the throes of grief.

         Suffering, suffering everywhere—how can I be good enough? How can I care for all this need? If I release one and hope others might carry a burning fire for justice—does that make me bad? What happens if I realize I cannot carry it all and release it instead to God? Does that make me weak? Or does that make me faithful?

         We compare and we minimize, and we try to rationalize. God, I don’t know what is right—I don’t know what will allow us to make it through.

         I just know we cannot do it without you.

That somehow in my inability to carry it all, to hear all the pain, to try and fix it, to try and hold it, to help, to save—I fail—but you somehow will always prevail.

         That to each child scared and lost, abused, and frail—you count every hair on their heads and name them precious. To those who open their hearts and minds to care, to reach out a hand to help, to pray, feed, heal, and be with others—you know every hair on their head as well. And you call us all beloved.

You call us your very own self, saying “just as you did it to one of the least of these who are truly members of my family, you did it too me.”

O God, in the midst of so much suffering and despair you and only you have the great capacity to know us, to love us, to save us, to carry us, to heal us all.

You are the peace bringer, the peace maker, and somehow, I hope, believe, and trust you will truly bring peace to us all.

When my hand holding and prayers don’t seem like enough, I trust they are, because your Divine hands somehow hold us all. Amen.

I originally wrote this poem while I was at work. I was overwhelmed with grief due to the news about more violence being inflicted on people throughout the world. I sat in the garden, the light flickering through the branches of the magnificent oak trees, the breeze rustling my hair. I sat in the garden, grappling with mortality, with grief, with sadness, and helplessness. I had come to the garden in search of solace. I had just sat with a patient who had a poor prognosis. I held the frail hand, attached to a body riddled with cancer, and offered what little kindness, love, and compassion I could. I prayed words asking for Divine comfort, for peace, and for God’s loving presence. But in the face of such a mean world, a scary terminal prognosis—it did not feel like enough. Yet, I had no more to give.

The result of these feelings of overwhelm are the words of the poem above. The words flowed out as I named my feelings, my sense of inadequacy, and much like some Psalms begin with feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, and despair—the words turned to remembrance of when God was present, of all the times God has kept God’s promises, to then turn to a moment of hope and trust in the Divine hands that somehow hold us all.

         The original poem was tweaked when weeks later I felt the Spirit stir to being a sermon with these words. The poem that I had written, never expecting anyone’s eyes to see, much less their ears to hear—seemed the exact right way to start a sermon on Matthew 25:31-46. The quote from Matthew that is found in this version of the poem was added while I wrote the sermon in what I attribute to the editing that the Holy Spirit often does to my sermons and writings.

         In a wounded world where life is so often incredibly sharp and painful, I have to remember my place. To remember that the love, light, and kindness that I put out into the world matters and has the potential to make an impact—the ripple effect is real. And on the flipside of this, to remember not to put too much pressure on myself or to place too much importance on myself. For there are Divine hands that somehow hold us all.

As we find ourselves at the end of the first week of Advent, I felt that this poem reflects the real struggle I experience in trying to find hope in a wounded world. The reality is, it is very hard, yet still I cling to the journey of seeking out hope, trying to grasp it in my hands and heart, but letting the little wisps of hope that often float through my fingers be enough. This poem, and its words, are the little wisps that I have been allowing to surround and dance around me in this season—I hope it might also be a wisp of hope to you, wherever these words might find you.

         May peace find each and every one of us today. Amen.