Work of Our Hands, Desire of Our Hearts

My handy dandy herb garden outside my kitchen door
Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea the work of our hands establish thou it. Psalm 90:17

At dawn, I loitered in bed after a good night’s rest. Robins, house wrens, and bluebirds sang backup music to the day’s projects rolling in my mind.
Weed raspberry patch.
Bake scones.
At last, a Saturday with no commitments away from home. I relaxed, my down pillow a luxury. I hoped for rain and a housebound morning to wash and dry loads of garden clothes. I’d hang the sheets outside if the sun prevailed. Spring-scented linens are marvelous gifts for exhausted gardeners to anticipate.
I wouldn’t step a toe off our three and a third acres from sunup to sundown. First thing, I’d bait the rabbit trap my friend Joyce loaned me and place it outside the raspberry fence. If the contraption worked, my husband the designated driver would find the critter a new home. Thus begins another attempt to live in peace with wild things that eat my flowers and food.
A whiff of rain followed by sudden percussion on the roof and eaves burrowed me deeper into meditation.
“Listen,” said that still, small voice I’ve grown to love with all my heart.
Yes, this is the hour I sever my “to do” tether and carry my stack of devotional books to my bed. There I write and read, consider the joy and salvation of God’s love and forgiveness.
The first wild pink rose to bloom after transplanting

Moments into my journal entry, a young man came to mind. I could not forget his eyes looking up to me above his glasses in a grocery store a week prior. There’s a lesson embedded in his hands that fumbled to remove a loaf of bread from the slicing machine and slide it into a bag for my purchase.
Repeatedly, his unruly fingers worked to fit the bread into the plastic bag. Repeatedly they failed until he finally succeeded. Then the lad fought the battle again with my second loaf.

I could’ve cried with gratitude for the boy’s manager who observed and guided him with kindness. He was the right person to instruct a disabled employee.
Victorious, the trainee reached my two bags of bread over the sandwich case without a word.
I couldn’t see his nametag to speak his name. “Thank you. You’ve done a fine job.”
He smiled, blinking above the frames of his eyeglasses. He hadn’t replied to his manager or me other than with a nod and shake of his head.
Dear Reader, I’m hearing what the boy’s mute service has spoken. Foremost, he could’ve been my son. To show mercy and forbearance with the works of our children’s hands is beautiful.
Furthermore, I am guilty of taking the work of my hands for granted. I now thank God for ten strong, obedient, and healthy fingers to establish the desires of my heart.
Yea, the Lord’s bounty upon my table. Upon us.