They’ve Got My Whole World In Their Hands~Holding on to What’s Important…and Never Letting Go.

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.