“But I cannot, and what’s in my hand is proof. . .”
Like nails all awry, torn out of wood they were supposed to hold together. Their time cut short. Evidence that, you know, our skill isn’t what it should be, and our labors are not enough.
What if what He wanted when He asked for your open hand was not what’s in your hand, but the hand itself. What if He just wanted to hold it? To hold you? What if the reason He asked for the twisted bits is that He knew they were a burden, and He wanted to help you off with it? Wanted to curl His warm fingers around your cold ones, and couldn’t do it without hurting you if you still held shards within?
These pieces, whatever they look like, are good enough for Him. . .
Just give them away?