I have three Jesus brothers in my life currently, Walker, Josh Garcia, and Josh Owen. Walker keeps me laughing and lets me sing along when he plays guitar. Josh Garcia’s heart is the size of Africa and his desire to know God calls me deeper. And Josh Owen talks books with me and we fight about whose Star Wars theories are right.
These are my brothers, and, as creepy as it might sound, I’ve watched them.
Especially, I’ve watched their hands.
I think about Adam’s hands, post-Eden, the inheritance for every man. Hands pushing past thorns and thistles, hands that know pain, hands constantly wiping the sweat of the face, toiling, until to dust do they return. I think about what those hands are called to do, the restlessness of seeking.
I think about Adam-hands grabbing my unsuspecting arm in Zambia—one of the most terrifying moments of my life. It was broad daylight not two blocks from my hostel. His eyes were blood shot and his breath stunk of alcohol as he lazily asked me what my name was.
I’ll never forget the desperation of seeing my team walking farther and farther away, not aware of my entrapment. When the pulling wasn’t enough, I was fierce in how my “let go of me and never touch me again” burst from the back of my throat as I fought for my freedom.
The Adam hand released, after the face and voice feigned offence, and I ran forward, shaking off the tears and the fears with every step.
It took a whole month to come to a place where I could pray for those Adam-hands. Grace upon grace upon grace—even when you’re scared—because that’s part of the deeper calling of holiness He asks of us. I know they can be transformed into Jesus-hands.
That moment, and many like it my squad sisters experienced in the country of Zambia, made me grateful for the brothers we live daily life with. My brothers know Jesus and mirror Him beautifully in many, many ways.
My brothers hands—shuffling cards, strumming guitars, pointing out constellations, flipping food on the stove, greeting strangers, holding bibles, penning words, torn and bloodied from construction work— are Jesus-hands.
I love their Jesus-hands. And I found a day where I loved their Jesus-hands most especially.
Our youth home has connections with an infant crisis home on the other side of town. The crisis home cares for babies newborn to three years old who have been abandoned by their families, lost mothers in child birth, or removed from unsafe family situations by the government.
When our host told us we could go visit if we want, Rashidat exclaimed that yes of course we want to go, with Bliz, Daiva, and I nodding along behind her. The guys all agree as well, but more with shrugs and looks exchanged between them.
On the drive to the home, Gibotz, our host, explains how the babies end up at the home and ends his talk with “Malawian men don’t touch babies. It’s not the man’s job, so even if the father is living when the mother dies, many children end up in homes since no one will care for them.”
I fight down the flash of anger and injustice, choosing to turn my heart towards thankfulness that there are ministries who will care for the babies even when fathers will not.
We enter the home, meet the staff, and are invited back into the nursery. All of us women find a baby and immediately scoop them up. I’m sitting with a sweet wide-eyed nine month old on the ground, talking and making faces, when I look up and notice all three of our guys standing in the room looking at us. Walker stands with his hands in pockets, Josh Garcia is scratching his head and looking around, and Josh Owen is looking at me with tight lips.
“Owen, come sit and meet my friend!” I say. He sighs a bit but then nods and sits down on the ground next to me.
“Hey… buddy,” He says, waving his Jesus-hand at the baby a bit.
And I watch as this baby boy’s little lips quiver up into a smile. “You don’t understand a word of what I’m saying, do ya?” Josh says, his own face quirking into a smile.
He got handed his own baby eventually, and declared, after about thirty minutes of holding her, that this was the longest he’s ever held a baby.
The best of it was the group of four two year olds that all wanted to crawl up his chair and his constant hovering hands keeping them safe. It led to a following that toddled after him when he moved anywhere.
Josh Garcia got handed a baby that he did not ask for when we first arrived. She settled down in his arms comfortably and I’m amazed at his hands that hold her just right. He notices my questioning look and shrugs, “I’ve got a lot of nieces.”
They sit together on the ground, the six foot tall tattooed bearded man and the tiny girl, his hands carefully holding the baby, and they don’t let her fall—even when she fills her diaper and he loudly announces, “Oh, she’s pooping,” and looks around at all of us with panic in his eyes.
And then there’s Walker. He found a baby after his own heart much the way Garcia did—by being handed one without asking. He held the little guy, crawled on the floor with him, and helped him eat some yogurt—even employing the age old “here’s comes their airplane” to get the little guy to eat. And then, together, they flopped side by side on the nursery floor for a nap.
My brothers have long since shed their Adam-hands and watching their Jesus-hands in action doing “what men don’t do”, blesses me deeply. I know this isn’t our guy’s first choice for ministry, but their yes was loud and clear.
I love these brothers for who they are and who they reflect. I loved that they are willing to have Jesus-hands in all things, if it means digging trenches for a school, or wiping spit from an orphan baby’s mouth.
These are my brothers, and how blessed I am to know them!
