My daughter had a little accident at school the other day resulting in a sizable goose egg on her forehead.  For that reason I picked her up to keep an eye on her.  Because it happened in the middle of the work day it was necessary for me to take her back to work with me.  For a while she colored, played with my iPad, and a few other random activities.  Eventually she made her way over to where I was sitting working at my computer.  Her hands found mine on the keyboard and she gently held her hands on top as I typed and used the computers built-in mouse.  [the picture above was taken that day as I didn’t want to miss that moment – she was none the wiser].  It’s funny the things we remember from our childhood.  For instance, I remember my Papaw’s hands.  He has since long left us for his eternal home but I think of him often.  We visited this particular set of grandparents weekly because they lived so close.  On most any trip you would always find the same thing–Mamaw was in the kitchen and Papaw in his garage out back.  He was always working on a lawnmower or any number of items as my brother and I played around him.  Later in the day you could always find him slathering his hands with a citrus smelling product called ‘Go-Jo’ used to clean the oils from his hands.  I remember staring at those same hands and seeing them darkened from oil stains or paint, calloused, and sometimes bloody from manual labor.  It’s highly probable my hands will never look like that.  Not because I’m willing to work but I’m terrible when it comes to fixing things.  I didn’t inherit the same “handy” gene my brother did.  My Papaw’s hands were always a direct result of the time and labor put in to taking care of my grandmother and the rest of his family.  Even in his final years when his movements were restricted by the cord coming from his oxygen tank he still found a way busy himself. It left me wondering, what is my daughter seeing when she looks at my hands?  Even more importantly, what does my heart look like?  You see, to the naked eye my hands can be deceiving.  My job has me more involved with matters surrounding the heart……not necessarily physically but spiritually.  My hands may not be calloused but my heart has been through quite a bit.  Lately it has become my goal to end my life with my heart in terrible condition.  Not from bad eating or things of that nature rather calloused from the love and compassion I have extended to those around me.  Honestly, many days I roll out of bed simply wanting to return to the comfort of my pillow.  But I can’t.  God has entrusted me—and you—with a job to do for His kingdom.  We must begin each day with David’s prayer to, “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”  [Ps. 51:10]  If we’re not about doing the Father’s business we’re wasting time and fall into the “lukewarm” thus becoming worthless.  Seeing my daughters hands placed on top of my own were a wake-up call to me.  She’s watching me.  Am I setting a worthy example for her….or anyone else who happens to be watching me?  I’m learning it’s not always what you’re doing with your hands that’s most valuable.  If we don’t die with callouses on our heart we’re not really living for Him.  Is your heart calloused?