The One With Nail Scarred Hands

Sometimes in my time with the Lord (whether that’s in the Word, prayer or worship) I imagine myself sitting next to Jesus. Before anyone gets all, “idolatry!” on me, I don’t see His face. I know I’m sitting next to Jesus, the God-man, and always envision a human formed body with no face. I picture what everyone pictures I suppose: a white robe.

During this time with Jesus, I talk to him. I sit at His feet. And sometimes I lay on the floor like a terrible two and beg the Lord to just let me have my way (Sidenote: have you not caught on yet to how “mature” I am?). In those early morning moments of curling up on the couch with Jesus, reading His word and drinking my coffee I miss one thing: His hands.

I heard a sermon this weekend that showed a few clips from the Passion. I think I almost forgot what that was for Him, for us. I forgot that although death did not win, He did suffer the crushing weight of sin on our behalf so that we wouldn’t have to pay the price of sin.

I kept thinking yesterday, “God, why do I feel like you don’t understand the trials of this life?” And then I thought of all those times hanging out with Jesus. What did I picture his hands to look like? Were they pristine as though no life had actually ever lived in them? Hands that never went to the cross? Or were they the hands of God himself who took on flesh, worked years as a carpenter, had those calloused and strong hands nailed to a cross for the redemption of the world? Am I picturing the hands of the only One who will ever be my hope and my portion?

I realized that I plead my case before Christ as if He has no idea as to what’s going on in my world. I forget the hands that were pierced for my transgressions. I forget that my life isn’t about me. It’s not for me. It’s for Him and always will be about Him. Letting go of that is scary, but so very freeing. I make a crummy god.

When Jesus calls us to take pick up our cross and follow Him, He knows it’s going to be hard. But Jesus, being worthy of trust and obedience, reaches out His nail-scarred hands and bids me to come. So I come.


The Story: You Just Drank Out Of My Cup

While not trying to make a big deal about this on social media for fear of embarrassing the persons involved, I will try to refrain from my usual dramatics and just tell the story like it is. Now, after the shock, it is a little funny. Don’t worry, names** have been changed to protect all parties involved. They are quite realistic, though, so just be careful when retelling this true tale to not get confused.

Let’s rewind to last week. Well actually, let me brief you on my current living situation. I’m living in the upstairs of my Grandma’s** house. It used to be an attic area, but she converted it with it’s own bathroom to be a pretty nice sized loft. I always joke and say, “I live in an attic.” That’s only partly true. It’s actually one of my favorite rooms I’ve ever had.

My lovely Loft.
My lovely Loft.

Back to last week! I was working from home making a few phone calls trying to get appointments set up. I was on the phone with my mom explaining some Cru stuff when I hear, “Mary, Lady Gaga** is coming up!” And I’m like, “Who’s this Lady** coming up into my room during work hours?” But of course, southern belle personality, you never say something like that to a complete stranger.

Well, Lady Gaga** enters the room in such a fury, almost not acknowledging my presence (or the fact that I was on the phone (FIRST SIGN she was never a mom to teenage girls)), and begins walking around frantically upstairs. “Wow, this is a pretty decent sized upstairs… you’ve got two beds. One here, one there. And a bathroom. Neat. Wow, a closet [THEN SHE ENTERS SAID CLOSET].”

Said closet. Lighting isn't so great, so sorry.
Said closet. Lighting isn’t so great on this side of the tundra, so sorry.

And then just like that the Lady** went right back downstairs.


The only thing that really went through my mind was: BOUNDARIES. I need to talk to my Grandma** about my job being a real job, 40-50 hours a week, and my space is my work space. I walk downstairs after my conversation and before anything could come out of my mouth my sweet 78-year-old Grandma** says, “I am so sorry about the intrusion. She just walked in the house. I tried to stop her but she just wanted to go upstairs.” Confused I asked, “Who was she?” My Grandma** explained she was an acquaintance that she hadn’t seen in THREE YEARS.

THREE YEARS PEOPLE. And she just thought it was okay to walk into someone’s house unannounced and look around the whole house asking, “What do those stairs lead to?… The basement? What’s down there?… What about these stairs?”

AND THEN… It gets worse. [Sorry, remembering to refrain from the dramatics].

Today, my Grandma* was expecting company around 10:30-11. At around 10:15 she hopped in the shower and I went back to my Loft to get some cleaning done. As soon as I sit down and put on a Bryan and Katie Torwalt song I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. In the back of my mind I’m thinking how horrible would it be if that was Lady Gaga**. I turn around and I see that same Lady** in my upstairs. I think, “Surely, that’s one of Grandma’s** bridge buddies.” Then I look down at her pants and realize, “Nuh, uh. Ain’t no southern belle coming to a bridge hangout with her friends in sweat pants. That’s Lady Gaga**.”

So, I panic a little realizing it’s me and Grandma** in the house alone. And Grandma** is in the shower. She won’t hear me scream. By the time I think to say something, Lady Gaga** is three inches away from me staring at my screen saying, “I kept hearing this song. It’s so beautiful. Who sings it? I heard it and had to come up. It is so beautiful.”

Bryan and Katie Torwalt, I fear what would have happened if that song wasn’t on. You saved my life. [DRAMATICS].

She starts walking around again frantically, this time making her way into my bathroom and rummaging through there. She comes out and says, “You sure do have a lot of stuff. You should sell some for money.” She then starts roaming around and looks at the twin sized bed and asks, “Who sleeps there?” I AM LIVING THE HIGH LIFE ALONE LADY GAGA**.

As soon as she starts walking back downstairs she sees my cup of coffee (first one in like 6 days people) and says, “Oh, this one’s still warm.” SHE PICKS THE CUP UP. PUTS THE CUP TO HER LIPS. AND DRINKS. Oh, and thennnn… she says, “MMMM. YUM YUM YUM YUM.”

That was the last straw. I called the cops. Ain’t no Lady** wandering around my house TWO TIMES and drinking my coffee OUT OF MY CUP.

Not always Etsy. Not always.
Not always Etsy. Not always.


She left before the cops came. We went back and forth with the police about a report and what could be done for her. Realizing there’s something psychologically wrong there made me want to push for us to make a complaint so that legally they would be able to intervene and help. Annnnd keep her from me, my Grandma** and my coffee.




PPS-  After the initial shock wore off, I realized that was a very potentially dangerous situation. It shook me up quite a bit. I write this blog with humor just to share what happened, but know I am taking this very seriously. Thanks for reading my bizarre stories of things that LITERALLY only happen to me and sympathizing, laughing and crying with me!


So, my bff Jess works for this company called Goba (Get  Out Be Active). It’s the new up-and-coming cool mobile device that helps organize group events. It takes the virtual friendships and puts them back in real life. (In my opinion this couldn’t have come soon enough!) So, you should check them out and get involved. Here’s one of their videos.