We are all the two thieves. We’ve either asked Jesus to remember us or we have mocked Him by not believing Him. The two thieves were a physical example of the two paths to take. A sinner set free by the blood of the Lamb – or a sinner still attached to his/her cross. You can choose to follow Jesus to Paradise or you can choose to stay the way you are. He leaves the decission up to you. But only one road leads to Heaven. Only one way takes you away from death eternal. Jesus is the only way- the choice is up to you.
Down that road is where I long to be.
There’s a road that keeps on calling me.
The pathway of tears, the road of sorrows, the Via Delorosa; the road has many names and titles, yet it always leads one place, to the cross. Oh I don’t mean the Spiritual Cross. I mean the literal cross. The worst part about anything you are dreading is the leading up to it; the road to your school or office, the hall to the doctor’s office, the first signs of a cold. You know what’s coming, and you dread it, yet you are given no choice and must walk down the path to where you are supposed to be. Many walked this road carrying crosses. Only one held no sin. Many felt the pain and shame and fear of going down that road, only one went down it by choice. Many were nailed to crosses to pay for their crimes, only one was nailed to a cross to pay for my crimes, and the crimes of all those who would choose to lay their sins aside and follow Jesus.
There’s a road that keeps calling me. The road to the cross. Yet when I stand on that hill I am not accused, because I gave my life to Jesus and He paid my debt for me.
Our hands do so much and they are unique to each person. I don’t just mean because of our hand lines or gen codes. They are unique i what they do. My nana had hands that were often found playing the organ, crocheting or holding a cup of hot tea. My dad’s hands are usually found doing the work I don’t want to do like cleaning the barn, they can also be found gripping a tennis raquet or an old book. Mom’s hands are always working, dishes, laundry, meals and not just for her own household; they are also happy holding a hot cup of tea or a good book, but are happiest in the dirt of the garden or trimming flowers. Poppa’s hands are always covered in dirt from working in his shop or with his welder, that’s when they aren’t hugging his Bible or typing up sermons. My dog’s paws are even unique to him, not many dog toes are found in kayaks and climbing through hay bales. Our hands speak of our personalities, hobbies and jobs. They speak of our passions and what we love and who we love- my hands are often covered in animal hair because they are often touching my dog or horse, so they say, ‘yep, she’s nuts about her fur family.’
Jesus’s hands told His story too, they still do. Hard and calloused from His work as a carpenter and His time tenting during His ministry. Yet gentle enough that a colt would let Him touch him. Strong enough to lift a hammer, soft enough to be pierced by a nail. If Jesus stood before you and held out His hand you would know it was Him instantly because no one else would have His scars. Funny how everyone in Heaven is healed, except Jesus; His wounds remain as a reminder to us of His passion, job, personality, what He loves and who He loves. We are all in His hands.