For many years my grandfather worked on the railroad, and it showed.
He had these hands one only gets from wrestling brake levers meant to grind tons of speeding metal to a halt. Even old age preserved them: fingers thick with rope-like tendons, palms swollen with muscle, knuckles crooked and flat. In them one read the story of his vocation, a life of riding and guiding steel giants.
Hands are like that, even in the Bible. They tell a story. And like my granddaddy, the story of the apostle Peter is also in his hands. It’s a story of four hands in two places, and a picture of the redemption that transforms our weakest moments.