The blessing oil drips off my hands, running onto the page as I write, and Scripture’s lines about oil dripping off of Aaron’s beard run through my head. I remember how I remind others that anointing with oil was a kingly act, that our baptism anointing ties us to the apostles, prophets, priests, and kings of our faith, stretching back to Moses and Aaron. And my hands seem small.Today these are the hands which blessed a dying woman and offer comfort which seemed to little to her family.
Last week these hands stapled, copied, changed toner, and moved chairs and tables. Next week they will light fire to turn palms into ashes, press the ashes into people’s foreheads, alto help us remember “you are dust and to dust you will return.
These are hands that pet my dog, cook, caress my husband, clean, sort laundry, and cart books around with me.
Hands that weekly raise bread and wine as I pray, hope, expect them to turn into Christ’s body and blood.
These are my hands, running over with the blessing of an Archbishop, drenched in the work God has called me to.