And he knew it was love
It was one he could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands
I went on a short flight over to Crossville tonight. It gave me the opportunity to really be alone. The weather wasn't great, it was raining off and on and visibility was poor. I say really alone because the clouds above me blocked out the moon and stars and the there isn't much between here and Crossville. I don't know of a time I've ever felt further removed from everything. Once I got outside Knoxville's airspace I turned the radios down and listened to the IPod. Tonight was a Nickel Creek night.
During The Hand Song I found myself looking at my own hands. These are hands that can fly an airplane. Hands that carry my daughter to bed. Hands that hold my wife. Hands that wear a symbol of my marriage and a reminder of my father. I was feeling pretty good until I noticed the small scar on the knuckle of the pinkie finger on my right hand. A scar I got winning a fight in the 8th grade. The same hands I use to hold my daughter I've used to bloody. These are hands of violence. Hands literally marked by violence and anxiety. Mine are hands scarred by my sin. So are His.
I know it was love. Its not really the same, but I've held my child up in scarred hands. I can't explain it any better than that. It's a love I can understand.