Handprints

 Little Tommy visited my grandmother one day,

precious only child of her sister's precious only child,

exploring corner and cushion in his two-year-old way,

gazing into the china hutch at gleaming treasures within,

leaving two perfect handprints on the glass.

"You didn't wipe them off!" I exclaimed when I visited her myself,

picturing the way my mother would rush in 

with ammonia water and a rag,

clucking her tongue and rubbing the marks away.

"By and by it will happen," said my grandmother, unfussed.

"But for now, when I see the handprints, I think of little Tommy, 

and I smile."

I never met little Tommy, this second cousin,

but wherever he is, he's a senior now, like me.

Had my grandmother erased his handprints, 

I would have no story,

would not remember he existed.

Had my grandmother erased his handprints, 

I would not have known that chill of almost-connection, 

inexplicable fascination with proof he'd been here.

Passed this way. Just missed me. Was real.

For the rest of my visit, whenever I passed the china hutch, 

I paused to stand at the perfect angle

so I could see those handprints on the glass.

If human handprints on worldly treasures are memorable,

what of divine handprints on my poor body of clay?

Lord, when You touch me, leave your prints.

Leave them so that even others can know 

Your hands were on me,

can feel that chill of almost-connection,

of inexplicable fascination explained in Christ.

Leave Your handprints on me, Lord,

so that those who stand at the perfect angle

can see them and know You're real.