Little Busy Fingers

A pair of red mittens, left behind by a wee two-year-old who face-planted a puddle on Saturday. Small. But big, by comparison with the little mitts warming the hands of my two-month-old granddaughter in Glasgow, and the one-month-old twins in Dundee. Wool fashioned to warm the beautiful, precious fingers and hands curled inside.

My Native American name as a Camp Fire Girl growing up in California meant Little Busy Fingers. My mother helped me fashion that name from a book of native American words; she knew me well. My fingers, rather bigger now, rather more wrinkled and with joints occasionally stiff, are still busy. Sometimes creatively, sometimes musically, sometimes just doing the work.

I give thanks to God for my hands and fingers, which enable creative expression, which facilitate service, which bring pleasure. God’s creative voice spoke things into being. May his creative voice find expression today through my fingers, through my hands, through everything I am, everything I do. May he bless others through my hands, and through yours.