We were at the San Antonio rodeo, seats on the rail. Afterwards, the musical guest was one of our daughter’s favorites. The tradition was for the artist to ride in the back of a pretty, new pickup around the arena. That night, she got close enough to touch the fans, and one in particular, our daughter. She held up her hand like one of those “I’ll never wash this hand again” moments.
Years later, we had seats behind the basket at the Silvers Stars game – our WNBA team. Our daughter stood up near the aisle after the game, not for an autograph or shoes or anything, just a random high five and maybe a picture if she was lucky. That day, one of the most dominant post players slapped a sweaty hand against hers. She looked at me with that same look. “I’m not washing this hand,” and she didn’t. Not until she wiped what was left of the sweat on her basketball shoes to capture some of the grit, the excellence.
Today, we were at a service of celebration for a life well lived. Communion was by intinction where you dipped the bread into the wine before eating it.
And He took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is My body given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” Luke 22:19
Remembrance.
The words hung heavily in my heart.
I’ve been known to drip at times, so I held my left hand under the wine-soaked bread. And sure enough, I dripped.
But it landed directly into the hollow of my hand. The very spot that is often depicted as where the nails pierced Jesus.
The spot tingled, as if the wine had soaked all the way in. This was not just a remembrance of Jesus offering His body and blood as a sacrifice for me, this was the place where they pounded the nails through.
The pain.
The agony.
The crying out to forgive them for they know not what they do.
And His final words, “It is finished.”
All for me.
All in the palm of my hand.
I have since washed my hand, but I can still feel the drop of His Blood, how it pierced inside and out.
Remembrance.
If these words have been a blessing, pass them along to another who needs to hear. Reach out to me at John@LiftedKeys.com and tell me your story. I would love to know where and in what way God has guided His words through my pen.
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