Hands

I wrote this many years ago on my lunch break between classes of 6th graders.  I don't know how it never made it to this blog, but here it is now.  I left it the way I wrote it, but someday I want to add to it.  

  The hand is a magnificent thing to think about.  Its design and range of function are astounding.  Our hands make us who we are.  They do the work to get us where we are in life.  Our hands feed us, groom us, and pick up after us.  They make up the bulk of what we do for our professions.  Some hands cook, others write, still others make music.  The list could go on and one.  They save lives, they bid on the stock market, and they run factories.  Whatever you do, it’s likely that your hands are actually doing the manual labor. 

            Your hands convey feeling and meaning.  You gesture, you touch people, and you point.  Your touch can tell some one you care about them, or it can turn them away.  Your gestures can either be friendly or abrasive. 

            Your hands tell a lot about you.  They can tell what kind of work you do, how hard you worked, and when you’re old; they can tell what kind of life you lived. The first thing I notice about a person may be their eyes or their personality, but the thing I remember about them is their hands. 

            If I’ve known you for at least 10 years, I will always remember your hands.

Abigail has good piano hands with stubby fingernails.  She’s the only person I know that cuts her nails shorter than I do.  Rachael has hands like mine, but prettier.  Her fingers are longer and more tapered.  Her hands used to always be dirty, because they were playing with my hands :~) but now they are neat, clean, and have a wedding ring on them.  Tammi had funny hands.  When I was little, I called them “doing hands.”  She was always doing something.  Cooking, cleaning, playing the piano or helping me with puppet shows.  Her hands told me that she loved me. 

            Mom’s hands were always full of a baby.  Or a paddle, or a textbook, or food, or medicine, or whatever else her children needed at the moment.  She has classic “mom” hands.  Brenda has those hands too.  But Brenda also has chemo hands, and they remind me of some of the scariest months of my life.  But they mostly remind me of food and clean laundry :~)

            Annie has great hands.  I don’t even know how to describe them.  Maybe “best friend hands.”  She’s been everywhere and done everything with me; even the parts that involved the sewer.  Now we’re grown up and she has nurse hands.  They are small but very capable.  She’s never dropped a baby. 

            The boys are another story.  Matthew, Ben and Nathan; mostly your hands were always stealing something of mine.  Or they were pestering me.  One time Matthew’s hands stripped me of my robe and left me at the roadside for dead.  Then Ben’s hands came and saved me.  Of course, it was a play, but it mirrored our lives together.  Matthew, I miss your hands.  My favorite memory of your hands was when you handed a baby Savannah to me for the first time.  Ben your hands have always been there to back me up and spur me on.  By the way, Caiden has your hands.  Nathan, your hands were always beating stuffed animals or shooting something.  I remember your hands while you were learning to read and write.  You always had to follow along with your finger while we read.  You had baby brother hands :~)

            Dad, I saved you for last, because your hands were the most memorable.  I used to be afraid of your hands.  They were big and hairy, and you gave really hard spankings.  I only got one from you, but it made an impression.  I remember many times, sitting and watching your hands while you wrote sermons.  It was fascinating.  I remember learning how to fix cars, install toilets, mix cement, burn hamburgers, and how to hold a violin.  You made me learn how to cast, bait a hook, and a whole host of other nasty things I didn’t want my hands doing.  But they’ve come in handy.  I’ve watched your hands comfort countless dying cancer patients, dedicated hundreds of babies; and marry and bury more people that I can count.  You may not think this much of a legacy, but if it’s the only thing you ever leave me with, it’s enough.  But I have one question about your hands.  Why do you have that one funny nail with the bump?

            I’ve gone through all the hands I have time for during one lunch break.  If I kept on we’d have pages of extended family extremities.  I asked myself two questions, which hands are the best, and which hands do I want?

            The best hands are defiantly Grandparent Hands.  Mema, I didn’t get to you, but you have great hands. Grandparent hands tell the best stories, have the best advice and make the best pie. 

            Which hands I want is a slightly harder question.  Having given it a lot of thought, I still don’t really have an answer.  I just have my hands.  They have their own story.  But you know what?  I really, really hope that I grow into my mother’s hands.