Dr. Mike Murphy
September 22, 2024
She looked intently at the hand she held. As she stroked his hand, she let her fingers caress every wrinkle. She knew each of those wrinkles well. For forty-eight years she had watched as each of those wrinkles had formed. Each line reminded her of the life they had shared together, the love they had for each other. The family they had raised, the business they had started. The home they had cherished for so many years.
As she looked again at that hand, she realized just how good of a man that hand belonged to. Almost forty years ago, they had started a family grocery store in the small town they had both grown up in. The store had never brought them wealth, but it had allowed them to raise three kids, and it had always provided a way for them to pay the bills. They might have had more, but the hand she held was a compassionate hand. How often she had caught him as he slipped a few more items in the grocery bag of someone in need. Or an extra bag of groceries somehow got loaded in the car of the mother who was just not sure how she would feed her children that month. And the annual food drive at the church they attended always seemed to meet its’ goal, even when it had been way short the day before the drive was scheduled to end. But it was that compassion that first attracted her to that hand, a compassion that drew her to cling so tightly to that hand today.
As she held that hand, she could hear the beeps slowing. He was a man with a heart of gold. But as big as that heart was, it could no longer handle all the stress that this life had placed on it. As she heard the beeps growing slower, she realized that the hand she clung to was grower colder. Finally, she could hear the beeps no more.
As she looked up, she looked into the eyes of their pastor and lifetime friend. He had been standing there beside the bed for hours, unwillingly to leave either of them for a single minute. But as he watched the life leave his longtime friend, his eyes caught hers. In that moment, he sought the words that might comfort her, words that might soothe her. He found himself speaking before he could even give it a second thought. “Do not worry Amelia, he is now in better hands.”
Better hands. Most pastors will tell you they find themselves turning so often to these words in trying situations. Words spoken to often comfort. To remind all that the Lord is there with them, and His promises are not forgotten. As I find myself in the midst of a struggle with cancer, I find myself also being reminded of these words. I find friends and fellow pastors now offering me these words to give me strength, to show me encouragement. To also remind me, that with this body my life will not end, that my life will just begin. And with the beginning of this life, I will find myself in better hands.
But as I hear these words, I find myself chuckling at the thought of what they are saying. Through the reality of my cancer, the Lord has shown me that these are words I could not disagree with more. My passing from this earth will not place me in better hands, because my life is in Better Hands now!
Over thirty years ago, those Hands reached into the pits of Hell to pull out a young rebel of a man named me. Those Hands lifted me up, they nurtured me, molded me, taught me, and those Hands surrounded me with a love unlike any this world can begin to imagine or know. On the day I first reached out for those Hands, those Hands gripped me tightly, and not a day since have those Hands even thought of letting me go!
Those Hands so often lead my hands to open His Word, and find the wisdom of a verse He gave to Isaiah. “But now, Oh Lord, you are our Father, we are the clay, and You our potter; and all of us are the work of Your hand.”(Isaiah 64:8). I am but clay. I am useless, shapeless and without purpose. It is only by those Hands that my life took on form, that my life became the purpose He made and intended it for.
As those Hands molded me, they shaped me and brought me into His work. Many who work in ministry will often refer to themselves as “working for God”. Those are words He has never taught me, and words He has never etched on this clay. In my years in the ministry, I have never worked a single day “for” God. But since being lead to the ministry, each day I have found myself working “with” the Lord. I have been blessed to serve as an apprentice of those Hands, and each day I stand in amazement as I am given the absolute privilege of watching those Hands at work.
Each day those hands guide me, they instruct me, and yes, each day those Hands discipline me. Each day those Hands lead me. Each day those Hands open up His Word to me. Each day those Hands cover my hands, bringing my hands together in prayer. Those Hands humble me, lightly nudging me with a downward motion on my shoulders, bringing me to my knees, and reminding me where I so desperately need to be. As those Hands move through my life each day, they teach me an abiding trust. A trust that comes without question. And each day as I look at the beauty of those Hands, I am reminded of the brokenness and flaws in my own hands. But each day, those Hands cover mine, so only those Hands are seen.
With each day, I become more familiar with those Hands. And with each familiar glimpse, I see the strength in those Hands. I firmly believe that in knowing every bend and crevice of those Hands, Paul was led to write words that we all know, that we so often quote. “I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.”(Philippians 4:13). Paul knew that we could not achieve that strength by our own hands, but only those Hands could give that strength to us, could share that strength with us. Hands that shine a light into our darkest shadows. Hands that silence the world around us, so we can only hear His voice. Hands that so silent this world, that we can hear the calming of His breath as He stands next to us. Hands that paternally reach for us, when we do not even know we are in danger. Hands that lift us to the highest of mountains, when we bury ourselves in the deepest of valleys. Hands that hold our promises of tomorrow. Hands that now build for us each of those promises.
As my time draws closer, I cannot wait to see the promises that tomorrow holds. Promises He has given to me. To be able to look at the beauty of the place He has prepared for me. Tears come to my eyes at even the thought of being able to see Him on His Throne. And I am sure I will fall to my knees as I am able to look on the face of the One who has loved me. But as I find myself in His Presence, and He reaches for me, I do not have a doubt that I will know those Hands. The Hands that each day cover me, the Hands that each day direct me. The Hands that for over thirty years has shown me, my life today rest in Better Hands!
Praying each of you already recognize those Hands!