At 10:20 this morning, my hands touched the tender, porcelain skin of a 2-week-old girl as I held her and blessed her and nibbled on her impossibly perfect toes. At 11:20, my hands held the fine, chalky yet granular ashes of a 93-year-old man as I sprinkled them into the hole in the ground in the churchyard. The tell-tale sign of white finger prints grace the cover of my Book of Common Prayer. 

At 12:20, my hands held high the papery priest host and the silver chalice as I said “… all honor and glory is yours, Almighty Father, now and forever. AMEN.” At 1:20, my hands held a fork as I ate lunch with someone whose best friend in the whole world died this morning. We savored our favorite avocado and lentil salads. I used my hand to tame an unruly piece of shaved fennel and to wipe a tear off my nose. At 2:20, my hand unconsciously picked a small dry scab on my forearm as I sat in a meeting. My skin feels much smoother now. At 3:20, my hands held the cool and slightly damp hands of a middle-aged woman as I prayed with her. She couldn’t see any hope and I’m not sure she wanted to. She laughed ruefully after I said, “In Jesus’ name, we ask it all.” At 4:20, my hands are moving slowly across a dusty keyboard as I write this blog, grateful for the tactile experience of the day. What did your hands touch today?