Thought Tapestries

Is the hand of God still
when it moves through the trembling fingers
of a widow pouring oil that never runs dry?
When the jar that should have emptied
keeps filling because a prophet said, “Thus says the Lord,”
and a mother obeyed with what little she had?

Are miracles lesser
because the actor wears our skin—
sweat on the brow, tremor in the wrist,
the ordinary ache of yes?
Does the lame man leap any less
when the command comes not from a burning bush
but from the lips of Peter:
“Silver and gold I do not have,
but what I do have I give to you:
in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise and walk”?

We ask if He has stepped aside,
as though the supernatural were the only script,
as though the Maker of stars
could not also author the quiet plot
of empty hands lifted,
of a beggar’s eyes meeting another’s gaze,
of a voice that carries heaven’s power
through a fisherman’s cracked and callused palms.

Yet watch:
the same breath that spoke light into darkness
now fills the words we dare to speak.
The same fingers that shaped galaxies from dust
now trace compassion through a widow’s jar,
through Peter’s open hand that gives away
what cannot be bought or sold—
the healing that belongs to God alone.

No retreat. No absence.
Only the fierce humility of love
that works through willing vessels
so that every wonder, every healing, every provision
returns its light to the Source.

All glory goes to God—
even when His hand
answers in ours.