Those Hands

I can't seem to get the picture of those hands out of my head. They weren't just any hands. They were dirty, stained, and roughened by a hard life spent begging and sleeping on a sidewalk somewhere. They were cupped together, a very humbling position, trembling with nervous excitement as they felt the weight of over a pound of food, a feeling which had been forgotten long ago. They were filled, and as they were he just sat there staring at them not knowing what to say, wondering if this was too good to be true. And yet it wasn't, and he did find the words that he wished to express. A shaky 'thank you' was uttered from his lips, and then another, and another.

Joy filled that heart. And just as when a cup has too much water poured into it, and the water flows over the brim, so the heart does with joy. Those hands were filled with food, till they were overflowing. And what was the first thing that they did? They got up, took a firm but gentle grip of what had been placed within them, and gave some of their contents to the other pair of outstretched hands not far off.

Those hands were held in a way that did not expect anything, in the humblest of fashions, in a way that a man that has been humbled by circumstances holds them. And when they received, they shook with the utmost of thanks. And when they were filled, they shared their precious contents with the utmost of care. And I cannot forget, and will always have imprinted in my mind and heart, a picture of those hands. If only our entire lives echoed what they did.