Reflection 17: Little Hands and Holy Wounds

Our family goes to Adoration once a week.

Most people probably imagine something reasonable. Saturday at 5:00 PM. Maybe 10:00 in the morning. Something gentle. Something well rested.

No.

My husband signed up for the notorious shift. Friday at 4:00 AM.

Before G was born, he went alone for months. Alarm ringing in the middle of the night. Quiet house. Dark drive. He never asked anyone to come with him. He just went. Faithful. Steady.

Then G was born.

And if I am being completely honest, my request to all go together started for selfish reasons. The thought of being home alone at 4:00 in the morning with a newborn and a toddler while I was still relearning motherhood felt overwhelming. So I asked if we could just go as a family instead.

Instead of him slipping out while we slept and hoping no one woke up, we would pile into the car together.

And that is how it began.

Unless someone is sick, my husband still goes like clockwork. And for months now, our little family has driven through the dark to sit before Jesus.

When we first started, E would fall asleep. Now he is very awake.

He tries to collect every rosary in sight. He rotates through Old Testament and New Testament coloring books. He brings what I lovingly call our Raising Saints bag, filled with little faith based activities to keep his busy hands occupied. Because if you know E, you know simply pointing and whispering is not enough. He needs to move. He needs to touch. He needs to do.

So we let him come to the Lord the way he knows how.

This morning, after our quick commuter rosary, fifteen minutes and it is finished, I sat in the pew with G and her bottle. My husband stretched out on the floor beside E in front of the monstrance. The chapel was still and dim, that quiet kind of holy that feels almost tangible.

I watched the two of them coloring together.

Then E stood up.

He wandered over to the statue of Jesus, the one where He shows His hands and feet to the apostles after the Resurrection. Our son reached out his tiny fingers and touched the wounds in His feet.

“Ouchi, Jesus. Ouchi.”

He said it softly. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just sincere.

I watched as my husband knelt beside him and gently explained, in words fit for a two year old heart, why Jesus has holes in His hands and feet. Why there is a wound in His side.

E kept reaching up and touching them. The way I imagine the apostles did. Trying to understand. Trying to believe.

And it hit me.

I know why those wounds are there. I know what they mean. But our children are just beginning to discover the story that shapes everything about how we live. And this morning I watched the light flicker on behind my son’s eyes as he realized something sacred.

I also got to watch my husband be the one to explain it. To step fully into his role as spiritual leader of our home. To teach our son about the love that defines our family.

It felt holy.

Later, as I pulled in to grab my sweet tea after daycare drop off, I found myself replaying the moment. Sitting there on an ordinary morning, overwhelmed with gratitude.

Grateful for a husband who leads us to the Lord in the dark hours of the morning.

Grateful for a little boy whose heart is already tender toward Jesus.

Grateful that we get to raise saints.

Even when it starts at 4:00 AM.