My Hands Tell a Story

Photo by Stephen Elliot in association with

They’re etched and rough from years of toiling at sea, searching for crayfish. These hands have gripped coarse ropes and clung to the rough metal sides of boats during storms.

For years, my hands also clutched a bottle and steadied my body against poles as I’d stumble home, wasted from alcohol.

Weather-beaten, these hands have built my home, brick by brick. They’ve tickled my children. Three times, these hands have come close to falling cold against my side.

Three times, God
has spared my life.

Now my hands sell snacks to teachers and children at a nearby school. Hands that once couldn’t put down a bottle now turn the thin pages of my Bible.

My hands are rough and calloused, gathering wrinkles as I watch my children grow older. Once, these hands would have reflected my heart—scarred and rugged.

But my heart
is changing.

After years of trying to drink my life away, I finally turned to God.

Now that I’ve experienced him, it’s changed everything.

My life is a testimony of what God can do. My hands tell the story of how God, once again, preserved a rough fisherman.

Snack Stand Owner
in Mandela Park, Hout Bay, Cape Town

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