My fingers

Clench tight-

Wage wars,

Fears fight-

Or run away

From anything

And everything

That threatens them.

They are curious and dirty like a child's

They are pensive and cramped like a poet's

Acrylic embeds itself in them like an artist's

And they are

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

They aren't so good,

With fragile things-

They fumble clumsily and

Wearily and worried

Often.

They weave wonders in the hearts

Of children-

Their passion is grasping the shoulders of

Women at the Women's Mission,

Before an embrace-

After

They have

Searched diligently through scripture;

Hungry for the right verses

That will nourish the

Broken

Empty

Souls of the

Precious

Lost.

They are soft in the right places.

They are rough in the right places.

They climb trees

And play in the dirt-

And accumulate soft sweet

Grains of earth underneath their nails.

Today-they hold his hands

And trace his perfect face.

They will one day,

Hold my children...

They will one day shape my ministry.

And they

Will plant a garden,

That will grow-

And spread through the earth

Ringing Christ's name

And exclaiming His glory.

They will

Bake Christmas cookies

And decorate winter trees

With glistening bulbs

That invite carolers to my door-

Through pretty picture windows.

They will dress Barbie Dolls,

And create crafts with Popsicle sticks.

They will pack brown bag lunches

For bright eyed babies with

Eager faces.

They will

Hold the hands

Of Afghan women

Who are parched like dry land,

Who are searching for springs

Of life

In the hot desert.

They will bear my passport

And my luggage

And maps of Spain someday-

And Russia-

And record

Everything

They touch

And feel

And taste

While they are away.

And when I go-

They will leave behind a legacy for my children...

In journal entries,

And acrylic coated fingerprints

And change the world

With what they say.