My hands look miserable, for reals, y'all. I normally have really bad hands in the winter due to them drying out and chapping. Yeah, I know, lotion. News flash: that doesn't always help. Anywho, add a job where I get my hands wet a lot, and two puppies, and you have hands that look like they have been in a fight with a gang of cacti.
Most of the really painful looking marks are from B and T. They really don't mean to most of the time, but their tiny, needle sharp claws hurt like... hurt. Lots of hurt.
Sometimes, though, they do mean to. Like when they don't want me holding them. Especially during "I'm the boss" time. I look at my hands, and arms, and the scratches on them and I'm reminded of Christ. I'm not trying to be all noble. I'm terrified that I'm going to ruin our puppies somehow. I'm sure not bearing their sins either. That said, tonight, after we were all calmed down, I cried a little. I know, pathetic. My hands hurt and I'm exhausted. Please forgive me. I cried.
I realized though, how Christ was beaten and bruised, not because He did anything wrong, but because we have. He was trying to show us grace. He was showing us a better way. For those hours on the cross, what did He have to show for it? Just a bleeding mass of a body. I'm not really sure what I think about songs that talk about Christ thinking of me on the cross, or even that really the cross was about me much at all.
That said, when I look at my hands, my thoughts are thus: "I can bear with this hurt, because in the future, when I have dogs that are well-behaved, trusted companions, this will be worth it."
"This will be worth it."
Maybe, just maybe, that's a tinie, tiny fraction of what Christ thought.
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