It came to me on a west-facing bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. I'd fled the beach house, which was filled with family, for morning meditation. In the early hush, I was allowing my eyes to close when the vision appeared: two massive cupped hands resting on the brim of the distant watery horizon, extended toward me and tinged with the gold of the rising sun. They were inviting hands, embracing hands, healing hands, sacred hands. They were the hands of God.
I brought that image home and meditated on it for weeks. The hands became ever more familiar until they were comfortingly commonplace. I was going through the usual midlife crises at the time — troubles with kids, career, my health or the health of those I love. Whatever the crisis, focusing on those hands and sensing their distant but unquestionable presence helped me through the weeks and months.
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