Hands || poetry about the shaping of life

My life has been shaped by hands.

Seven years young. 

Just a few haircuts 

and awkward phases ago, 

I watched my mother 

pen my name 

onto the back of her hand every day. 

A tattoo,

nearly,

Of my name and my need.

Every day she wrote it as part of her grand scheme for the day,

So as to never forget her nurturing me.

My mother is a planner,

Who goes to great lengths.

Her paper days scatter our kitchen as decoration,

Signs of life lived.

Her lists like poetry,

Her subject of choice, motherhood.

Yet her favorite line of each poem always seemed to be the one's that had my and my brothers' names.

My father. 

A man of provision and of care.

From childhood,

He has never stopped watching over me.

Bath time each night, 

I sit as he sings songs over me and takes away the day's dirt. 

I am helpless to care for myself;

he knows.

Yet with joy he does sing songs that entertain and teach 

as I splash about and make a mess.

With joy he does wrap me in my towel and wipe away the cold.

With joy he does carry my sleeping body to warmth and comfort.

With joy he does it all again the night next.

Clay solar systems and model tree houses and easy bake cookies.

Legos, the saxophone, and the pajama pants I sewed in the fifth grade.

Guitar chords, water colors splashed and term papers typed.

My hands love to create.

Once tiny with disproportionate imagination,

Now nearly balanced, less tiny

But no, never creating timely.

Never consistent in hobby or phase,

But certainly

Always

Creating.

Three sets of dearly loved hands,

Their prints marking my life.

But none of these hands are my favorite hands.

No, I know hands who do all three hands' work perfectly,

And just so much more.

The hands of my God.

In the word it says that we are 

Molded 

as by a potter's gentle hands, 

we were clay. 

In that case,

My clay solar system 

Has nothing on the originals

That my God has spun into motion,

That he has created from His own 

Insane

imagination.

I created for years,

I still do.

But it must be said that

All that I have made 

Is modeled off of that which my God,

My Creator,

Formed first.

My mother writes my name on the back of her hand with what I need,

But my God had engraved my name on His palms, before I was even a word for my mother's living poems

And He tells me He will never forget me.

As my father washed my body clean as a child,

My Heavenly Father washes my soul as His child,

Renews, restores and redeems.

He sings songs about me and rejoices,

Wraps me in His goodness

And carries me to lay me down in safety.

My God, my Father, my Lord.

Though 

my hands were dirty, 

You held them. 

my hands aching and bare boned to no avail,

You healed.

my hands in desperate need of saving,

You pierced your own.

My name is written on Your hands,

Gracious God,

And I will not be forgotten.