Growing up, I always thought I was gonna be a doctor, surgeon, or even a veterinarian… I had always prayed that my hands would be used for healing.
So when I got drafted into Tuesday morning and school at 8:00 AM… I was a little surprised.
I marched in the lines like a good soldier. I kept my head up and my shoulders squared and made the enemy lines look me in the eyes just to prove I wasn’t scared.
I was surprised that even though it was 8:00 AM on a Tuesday blood still covered my hands. I’m not sure if it’s mine or Jessica’s… the blood is still just red.
I used to self-harm… as if a small metal blade had the power to banish the scary thoughts I harbored at such a young age.
The funny thing is when you’re 20 years old, the world seems a lot kinder than it did at 5… and maybe because it is… or maybe you just got used to it.
When I was 16 years old, I sat in my grandpa's living room. I don’t remember what was going on, but it was quiet. All I could feel was his hands on me. Memories flashed through my head like an old picture film… some of which I swear were in black and white. As I sat there… I remembered my uncle's face when he told me not to make a sound… and that I was special…
I called my grandfather into the room. And I dissected the parts of my brain that were once scared over… I had been molested….
When my grandpa put two and two together… my tragedy and trauma took his voice.
I searched for his voice under every cookie jar lid and dust bunny… He held me in his arms and his hands holding me told me more than his words ever could.
It took him about a week to recover to finally say something, all he could choke out was “I am sorry.”
As if I blamed him, As if he could have done something, anything to stop the pain that was bestowed upon me from the moment I entered crying.
My grandfather in all his anger, never told me he wanted to kill my uncle but the look in his eyes was all I needed…
His anger was quiet… which is a lot scarier than I thought it could have been
He had red hands from sins I don’t know about and memories he can’t recall.
Aren’t we all just people with red hands?
When I was 16, I started therapy… and I realized that I was the product of red hands…
See I learned in biology those things called dominant and recessive traits
When both parents have the same trait, the percentage chance of their child having the same trait is higher or lower.
I got both of my parent’s red hands
As if a dominant trait can banish you from ever having clean hands again
In therapy, I learned
Maybe these hands are covered in blood, but maybe they can still heal anyway.
So I took the water that poured from my Savior’s side and with his blood, I was washed clean
My blood-covered hands that were taught to hurt had been healed
And because of His goodness and grace, I will forever try to help show people that their hands too can be cleaned
They don’t have to carry the blood-soaked hands anymore… they too can wash their hands
The devil likes to remind me of the times I had blood-covered hands.
He shows me the dried blood caked under my nails and that tells me I’ll never be truly clean
And I close my eyes and I get flashbacks to the horrors of looking down at red hands
But my hands aren’t red anymore
And neither are yours
We can help each heal
And though it takes time, and it’s messy and gross
I hope you realize the blessing it is
That you can have clean hands too
So when I got drafted into Tuesday morning and school at 8:00 AM… I was a little surprised.
I marched in the lines like a good soldier. I kept my head up and my shoulders squared and made the enemy lines look me in the eyes just to prove I wasn’t scared.
I was surprised that even though it was 8:00 AM on a Tuesday blood still covered my hands. I’m not sure if it’s mine or Jessica’s… the blood is still just red.
I used to self-harm… as if a small metal blade had the power to banish the scary thoughts I harbored at such a young age.
The funny thing is when you’re 20 years old, the world seems a lot kinder than it did at 5… and maybe because it is… or maybe you just got used to it.
When I was 16 years old, I sat in my grandpa's living room. I don’t remember what was going on, but it was quiet. All I could feel was his hands on me. Memories flashed through my head like an old picture film… some of which I swear were in black and white. As I sat there… I remembered my uncle's face when he told me not to make a sound… and that I was special…
I called my grandfather into the room. And I dissected the parts of my brain that were once scared over… I had been molested….
When my grandpa put two and two together… my tragedy and trauma took his voice.
I searched for his voice under every cookie jar lid and dust bunny… He held me in his arms and his hands holding me told me more than his words ever could.
It took him about a week to recover to finally say something, all he could choke out was “I am sorry.”
As if I blamed him, As if he could have done something, anything to stop the pain that was bestowed upon me from the moment I entered crying.
My grandfather in all his anger, never told me he wanted to kill my uncle but the look in his eyes was all I needed…
His anger was quiet… which is a lot scarier than I thought it could have been
He had red hands from sins I don’t know about and memories he can’t recall.
Aren’t we all just people with red hands?
When I was 16, I started therapy… and I realized that I was the product of red hands…
See I learned in biology those things called dominant and recessive traits
When both parents have the same trait, the percentage chance of their child having the same trait is higher or lower.
I got both of my parent’s red hands
As if a dominant trait can banish you from ever having clean hands again
In therapy, I learned
Maybe these hands are covered in blood, but maybe they can still heal anyway.
So I took the water that poured from my Savior’s side and with his blood, I was washed clean
My blood-covered hands that were taught to hurt had been healed
And because of His goodness and grace, I will forever try to help show people that their hands too can be cleaned
They don’t have to carry the blood-soaked hands anymore… they too can wash their hands
The devil likes to remind me of the times I had blood-covered hands.
He shows me the dried blood caked under my nails and that tells me I’ll never be truly clean
And I close my eyes and I get flashbacks to the horrors of looking down at red hands
But my hands aren’t red anymore
And neither are yours
We can help each heal
And though it takes time, and it’s messy and gross
I hope you realize the blessing it is
That you can have clean hands too
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