I am blessed to ponder the Hand. There is a faint light that plays over it, across the wrinkled and desiccated skin. To stare at that light is to look through the keyhole of a door, into another world.
I do not attempt to understand what I see, but rather let it wash over my heart and soul.
It is hard out here, every day it is hard. And yet to get to ponder the Hand, the Light... I give thanks everyday.
Sometimes I swear I see the fingers move, a little.
-Writings by a Priest of [REDACTED]