his hands

I met him in 2009, when we were still fresh out of the protection of our homes and just learning to sink or swim in the "real world."

I imagine that I shook his hand then, when I met him, I don't remember. We worked beside each other, and sat beside each other, and prayed beside each other, and did life beside each other for years. We knew each others heartbreak and joys and sadness and all the ins and outs that life served us. We knew each other, in the way that friends who share the same heart for Christ know each other. But I never noticed his hands, until I held them.

My initial observation when I held them for the first time this past summer is that they are strong, and grown. When I look at his hands, I can see that he is a man now, no longer a growing-up kid feeling his way through life like one feels their way through the dark. Life has grown him, and he is wiser, and stronger. I can see it in his hands.

His hands are gentle in a way that I cannot comprehend, in a way that makes me want to handle the people around me more carefully. They show love without overlooking sin, his hands know truth.

They have lines that run deep with hurt that he didn't deserve, from things in life that weren't fair and loss that is impossible to comprehend. And he thinks he doesn't know mercy, but I see where he has filled the spaces between the hurt with grace and love and forgiveness for those who caused the pain. Yes, he knows mercy.

His hands are calloused from working hard to do his best, at everything, always. Callouses from self discipline and self control that have pushed him on toward fulfilling his potential. And there has been and still is disappointment, when he feels like he doesn't measure up. But I see how he actually overfills every expectation I have ever had, in everything, always.

His hand rests on my leg when we ride in the car, even if we are just going down the street. And in a crowd, his hand is on my back, reassuring me that he is there and he isn't leaving me and he isn't afraid for everyone to know I am his. The first time he whispered to me that he loves me, his hands brushed my curls back out of my face so he could look me square in the eye. And when we bow our heads and close our eyes and approach the Throne in prayer, whether we are in a church full of 7000 people or a small circle of close friends or alone on the couch, his hand finds mine so we go together to the Creator, always.

We met in 2009, and we knew each other like brothers and sisters of the same Father know each other. We fell in love, at some point, I don't think either of us can say exactly when. Now we know each other like two people who share a soul. I see him, and I see his hands. And I can't believe that I will be holding these hands that I love so much for the rest of my life. "Thank you, Jesus" is inexpressibly insufficient.

[the engagement story to follow. stay tuned...]