My hands—how old they look now, all aching joints and weak grasp; fingers that stiffen after holding a pen. The veins are prominent, a raised reminder that life still moves within me. Christ has no hands but yours, they say. Lord, what would you have me do with these hands? Shall I worship at your feet with fragrant oil, weave a cloth, bake your bread? Perhaps it is enough when my reassuring touch is received by someone as a touch from you; when my hands, clasped in prayer, pull your canopy of grace over someone as a shield.