What We Do With Our Hands
Some folks kneel by a bed at night and whisper to a name that steadies them when everything feels thin as thread
Some light incense, some light candles
some just stare at the ceiling and talk to the dark like it’s the only thing big enough to hold the dread
Some people fold their fingers just to feel them stop shaking
some trace little circles on their own wrist to remind themselves they’re still alive
And some don’t talk to anything at all
they just get up, wash their face
and try not to drown in another day they have to survive.
You’ve got friends who call it God
you’ve got friends who call it the universe, the music
the luck of being born and holding on
You’ve got nights when you’ve cursed every name you were ever given for hope because the world kept burning until the light was gone
But every time shit hits hard enough that you can’t breathe
it’s not thunder from the sky that pulls you up from the floor
It’s a hand on your shoulder
a text at three in the morning
a neighbor knocking to say “hey, saw your light on
need anything from the store.”
Maybe it doesn’t matter what you call whatever keeps you from going under when the water climbs your chest
Maybe the name is just a comfort while the real work lives in how we show up for each other when we’re put to the test
Maybe the loudest prayer is “I’m here” whispered into somebody’s mess.
It’s not the name on your lips
it’s what you do with your hands
Who you pick up when the night goes long
who you stand beside when no one else stands
You can worship in a church, in a kitchen
in a bus seat with your headphones on and your eyes too tired to see
The way we fix the world is smaller than we thought
it’s tired people choosing not to turn away
choosing “you can sit with me.”
There’s a kid at the edge of the crowd who doesn’t believe in anything beyond the next bad day and the way their chest hurts when they try to sleep
They don’t trust books or pulpits or speeches from rich mouths telling them to be grateful while they climb a hill that’s way too steep
But when somebody scoots over on the bench and shares their fries
when a stranger holds a door
when a teacher says “I’m proud you’re still here
” Something quiet loosens in their shoulders
like maybe this place isn’t holy
but it isn’t hopeless either
not while friends are near.
You can draw symbols on your skin
hang charms from your mirror, wear beads, wear crosses
wear nothing at all
Whatever helps you keep walking is yours
but the real miracle is catching someone else before they fall
The closest thing I’ve ever seen to grace is a tired person answering a late call.
It’s not the name on your lips
it’s what you do with your hands
Who you pick up when the night goes long
who you stand beside when no one else stands
You can worship in a church, in a kitchen
in a bus seat with your headphones on and your eyes too tired to see
The way we fix the world is smaller than we thought
it’s tired people choosing not to turn away
choosing “you can sit with me.”
If there’s something watching over us
I hope it’s taking notes on all the mundane kindness we spend like cash
On every ride to rehab, every lunch packed
every silly joke told to stop someone from the crash
Every “text me when you get home” that keeps a body on the map one more night
Call it faith, call it chance, call it nothing at all
it still looks the same when we choose each other in the light.
It’s not the name on your lips
it’s what you do with your hands
How you hold a scared dog
how you walk your friend through courtrooms and bad news that breaks your plans
Say your prayers or swear at the ceiling
search the stars or trust the ground
whatever keeps you free, In the end
if this place gets saved at all
it’ll be by messed up hearts saying “I’ve got you” when they’re barely hanging on
not by some distant decree.
Whatever you call the hope that keeps you breathing when you’re sure you’re done
let it stay, Then turn it outward, one small
stubborn kindness at a time
and that’s how we keep this wrecked world okay.