For whatever reason, I began thinking about my father’s
hands the other day; I have always loved his hands. They are every idea and belief that I have
about strength, stability, and love…absolute assurance, firm discipline~it’s all
there. I remember sitting next to him at
the Kingdom Hall, holding one of his hands, endlessly enthralled by how solid
they were, and how the callouses made them seem for all the world like a
perfectly matched set of well-worn baseball gloves…soft and creased from
constant use, and wholly reliable. Short
nails, the occasional splinter or scrape~these were the hands of a working man,
a carpenter, an engineering genius; strong enough to lift blocks of cement, or
dig ditches, but gentle enough to always rest lightly on the small of my
mother’s back during a prayer. As I
thought about his hands as they were then, I naturally began to muse about his
hands now…they are…well, truth be told, they are still the most amazing hands I
know, and even though they are aged and more fragile…second only to God
himself, there are no hands that I trust more.
Hands. What a weird
thing to be sentimental about. I mean,
hands aren’t soulful, like eyes can be…they don’t light up a room like a really
great smile. They’re just…hands. Functional.
Practical. Nothing to write home
about, right? I disagree.
In addition to my father’s hands, I have come to realize
that I have a wonderful variety of hands in my life:
There are, of course, my mother’s hands. They are older now, too, and time has had
it’s way with the shape of her fingers, the strength of her grip. But time can do what it wants, because when I
see my mom’s hands, it’s not the vestiges of age which attract my attention. It’s my memory of literally hundreds of
loaves of bread, and apple pies, cursive “S’s” that look like ducks, and
handmade clothes…properly fastened diaper pins…those hands spent years teaching
me with every movement, every gesture.
And the hands of my siblings…how else would I have learned
how to play jacks, or turn the pages to find The Monster at The End of This
Book!, braid my own hair (badly), or spin wool by hand?
Then there are the hands of my husband…walking with me at
our first convention~holding hands, because we were engaged and it was “legal”
to do so; it was his hands which helped to deliver our babies, hands which to
this day never stop working to provide.
The hands of our children…what sweet, strong, beautiful
hands they are. As a mother and a
grandmother, there has been no greater joy to me than to have one of my babies
grab my hand and hang on…as we pray, or walk, or sit. Little ones who grab your hand with theirs to
lead you to their latest discovery, eager to share…every day, at some point,
Emma grabs my hand in hers and commands, “’Mon, Naan. SIT.” And
who am I to argue? And as my children’s hands
age, they will hold mine for different reasons:
To share joy, to survive grief, to let me know that they will be my
strength when I have none of my own with which to fight~that now, they will hold my frail hands in theirs, and they will not let go. And the circle continues, the family tree
continues to reach out, comforting in it’s embrace.
As if all of that is not enough, in addition, I am supremely
blessed by the amazing hands of my friends; hands which are always ready to
make a meal, grab a baby, do the wash, share some wine…whatever I need, those
hands are there without question.
Even the bible reveals how important hands are: Psalms 145: 16 says that God will “open his hand,
and satisfy the desire of every living thing.”
Doesn’t that just make you eager to peek inside His fist, to try to get
a glimpse of what treasures He has in there, just for you????
My father’s hands, which started this whole thing, are, like
my mom’s, older now. And yet, even in
their fragility, they are still, to me, so precious. Much like my favorite scripture as cited
above, my dad’s hands, and, in fact, all of the hands of all of the people who
mean so much to me: Whenever they open
their hands, my life is impossibly enriched.
It is those hands which hold me when I am weak, and join me when I am
triumphant. They hang on with me when I
am anxious, or hopeful, and in times of despair, they always know just what to
do. They always have, and they always
will; I hope that I can learn from them…how to accept all which they have to
offer, and how to offer something of value, in return.
If I can do that, and they can do that, then we all
win.
HANDS DOWN.
