I want to hold my worth in my hands;

to trace my accomplishments

in gilded letters on spine and cover;

to smell them in ink and paper.

But my desire is a dream awakened,

and all I can trace are tears

of shame, that I have nothing

to hold out in offering but empty hands.

Empty hands—not clenched fists,

angry, or grasping at given gifts;

Empty hands, ready to hold another’s,

to serve, to open and receive.

To receive trust—a hand placed

in mine by a friend or a child;

to receive that broken bread,

spoken over, speaking over me: “You belong.”

To belong, to be welcomed,

is not something I can close my hand

around—my palm is empty

on this pilgrimage, ready to give.

I cannot hold my worth in my hand,

but I can hold His most precious Body;

hold the hand of one in His Body;

be a hand in His Body—empty. . .