Look at your hand.
It’s not perfect,
though it would look silly on anyone else.
Fragile, yet strong.
The back and its forested hillsides,
the little hairs, the ridges and furrows,
the blue veins mysteriously tunneling.
The palm like a desert, eroded, sere.
Imagine all it’s held,
places it’s been,
what it has caressed or struck,
created or ruined.
What it has done, could do, might do—
most of it not alone,
but meant to work with another,
or even more.
You love it, don’t you?
You wouldn’t lose it for anything.
You need it, count on it,
even with its age and imperfections
delight in it, marvel at it.
You look at your hand, as if from a distance,
yet you are in it, are you not?
It is you, isn’t it?

God is in you
as you are in your hand.
Jesus is not God’s only one.

Near the speed of light
the divine Impulse comes to you,
Word made flesh.

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