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Look at a mother’s hands.

They may not look like much. Hands that were once manicured and polished, are now speckled with colored markers and non-toxic paint. The chips in her nails arrive courtesy of countless Lego stacks pried apart and Paw Patrol stickers scratched off walls. Her hands have seen more loads of laundry than ever thought possible. And her palms have pushed swings and carried coats and gripped stroller handles until they were calloused.

But her hands? Oh, her hands. They are evidence of such deep love.

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On the days I’m feeling most empty and broken, I remember the woman who reached out to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment.

The one whose touch He felt amidst the jostling crowd.

The one He stopped to not just look at, but to truly see.

The one He called “daughter.”

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