Two Hands to Hold

I often say the town I’m from has long winding roads that are home to both clunky pickup trucks and shiny new cars. A place where a beat-up Chevy revs its engine next to a freshly waxed Jaguar.

A juxtaposition. Life has many.

In one hand I hold such gratitude for answered prayers. In the other, I feel the pain of heartache. One palm carries rich, authentic friendships, while the other bears the burden of abandonment. 

In one I feel the soft sand of my healing little beach town, and in the other I feel the harsh winds of painful memories that brought me here. I praise God for His closeness with one hand and clench my other fist with impatient pleas. 

The grieving. The new birth. 
The mended. The broken.

Two hands to hold such opposing feelings.

I think of the truck trailing alongside the shiny car on those old country roads. And there’s something I know—that person inside might be richer than any. 

Richer in spirit, closer to God, deeper in love than anyone in a flashy exterior.

So as I weigh the beauty of my life in one hand, I look to the other. I wince. I feel the ache in the joints and the coarseness of calluses. The one that holds such hurt. The one with scars and chipped nails. And then I crack a smile, because that’s the palm I envy. 

That hand can now fold into another unassumingly, caress someone’s hurt, touch the depth of a friend’s brokenness. 

So with my two hands, I see the dark and light of life. When I wish I could use both to cup only good, I know there is purpose in both.

One cannot exist without the other. At least on this side of Heaven.