My right wrist tells me things. Messages worth heeding. The pang that jolts through it is a harbinger of injury, and I often retire from a sewing project for the rest of the afternoon. On occasion I strap on a brace, which helps me to behave. 

 

It is not as if that particular joint has been lazy. Ninety quilts a year, and hours of strumming a guitar take their toll over and above the keyboard tapping most of us engage in. A friend recently endured surgery for his own wrist, whose complaints date back decades to work that involved a hammer. I resonate with what Yogi Berra once said. 

 

"I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous."

 

There is a miracle described in Matthew, where a person's hand was withered. The tension in the synagogue was palpable, in that the priests were poised to strike. If Jesus healed on the Sabbath, they could accuse Him. For them the point was not about mercy, but rather adherence to the rules. Jesus was sad to see this. He commanded the suffering man to stretch forth his hand, and in that gesture was healed. The religious leaders were incensed, and began plotting ways to sabotage the Lord. 

 

I read the story of Corrie ten Boom, who was a victim of concentration camps. She spoke about forgiveness as the only way to heal from vengeance. After one of her speeches a Nazi approached her and reached out his hand, asking if she could forgive even him. She recognized him as one of the cruelest soldiers in the camp, one who had committed unspeakable atrocities. Her arm hung paralyzed by her side. Then she prayed, and in an instant felt a surge of compassion course through her shoulder, springing her hand up toward the German. 
 

"With my whole heart!" she cried. 

 

Recently I was facing someone I could not muster compassion for. In theory I knew I should reach out, but the effort felt like dead weight. I sent up a prayer. A small one, mind you. Yet in that interaction I was able to access kindness from a source outside myself.

 

Clinging to the guidelines about who is worthy of my respect is less appealing than it once was. When I offer words of acceptance it can even be a trigger for disapproval from others. Yet the slender willingness to embody grace is gaining momentum. 

 

It turns out that I don't want to make God sad. Plus the pain of dismissing His outstretched hand is a message worth heeding.