I Like To Hold His Hand Most Of All

I like to hold his hand most of all. I like the way our fingers flirt with each other, wrapping and unwrapping until they settle into a comfortable tangle. I like the simple and intimate press of our palms into a chaste and muted kiss.  To me, a hand hold feels holy. Is it because hands are so often moving about in sacred ways?

We press our palms together in prayer hoping that our supplication will shoot like lightening from our fingers into the soft heart of God. 
We send love from across the room, packaged in a kiss blown and bouncing from our fingertips. 
We lay our palms on a quaking back to help the grief pass from inside to out.
We bury our knuckles into ballooning dough that will be baked and offered to the bellies of those we love.

Our hands engage in one million holy movements during the course of a day, and I've only named a few. Of all of these holy movements, I like to hold his hand most of all.