In the late 1800s a young woman was born in the coal mining area of England. When she was eight years old her mother died of tuberculosis, and she had to drop out of school and became the sole care of three younger siblings. Her father worked fourteen-hour days in the coal mine. Every day she washed clothes and cleaned and cooked, while raising the younger ones. Soon she had the admiration and respect of those in the small community because she was tireless in her efforts to serve her family. Finally, the ravages of such hard work and poor nutrition took its toll, and she came down with the same affliction that had killed her mother. When she was sixteen, and lay dying, her pastor’s wife would find a few minutes each day to come and sit with her. One day when she came, she found the young woman weeping, with tears sliding down the sides of her face, and her fingers gently twisting the quilt in agitation. “Oh, my dear, are you in pain?” the minister’s wife asked. “No, Ma’m,” she replied and swiped at her tears. “Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help you.” “Oh, Ma’m, I always thought that one day I would have the kids raised, and through school, and there would just be Dad to take care of. Then I was going to have time to do something for Jesus. Now I’m dying and there isn’t time to do any of those things. Tell me, Ma’m, when I see Jesus, what will I tell him?” The pastor’s wife looked with sorrow on the young grief-stricken face. Then she glanced at the fingers that twisted the quilt, they were red and rough and cracked around the cuticles from the clothes she had washed, the children she had bathed so lovingly, the floors she had scrubbed, and the meals she had prepared with such care. Sadness welled up in her throat for this young life that would be taken too soon, but not as one who had not given her all. “Oh, precious girl,” she told her, “when you see Jesus, don’t say anything. Just show him your hands.” When I stand before God I don’t want to be ashamed to show him my hands. — Jan Brand |
At the age of eight, she had to quit school because her mother had died. While Dad worked at the coal mine, she washed, cleaned, and cooked in a tireless effort to care for her three younger siblings. Weakened by stress and poor nutrition, she acquired the same affliction that had killed her mother. As she lay on her bed, dying, she wept and twisted the quilt in agitation as she shared her burden with the pastor’s wife. “All my life, I have wanted to serve Jesus. Now, I’m dying, and there’s no time. What will I say when I see him?” The wife looked at the young woman’s rough hands, reddened and cracked from scrubbing the floor, washing the children’s clothes, and preparing meals. “Oh, precious girl,” she told her, “when you see Jesus, you don’t have to say anything. Just show him your hands.” When Christians stand before God, they shouldn’t be ashamed to show him their hands.
When her mother died, she quit school to care for her three younger siblings. After she acquired the same affliction that had killed her mother, she wept as she shared her burden with the pastor’s wife. “I’ve always wanted to serve Jesus. Now, I’m dying, and there’s no time. What will I say when I see him?” The wife looked at her rough hands, reddened and cracked from scrubbing the floor, washing the children’s clothes, and preparing meals. “Oh, precious girl,” she told her, “when you see Jesus, you don’t have to say anything. Just show him your hands.” When Christians stand before God, they shouldn’t be ashamed to show him their hands.
She quit school to care for her siblings. Years later, she was dying when she said to a friend, “I’ve always wanted to serve Jesus. Now, there’s no time. What will I say when I see him?” The friend looked at her hands, reddened and cracked from scrubbing floors, washing clothes, and preparing meals. “Oh, precious girl, just show him your hands.” Christians should never be ashamed of their hands.
Loved people. Pleased God. No shame. |