HANDS

 what story do yours tell?

Our hands work for us in many ways. Sometimes they're our voice. Sometimes they express more emotion than we can say aloud. Sometimes they share through touch. I notice people's hands. I love how they are decorated, how they're unique, but especially what they do. More than anything, I hope others find mine as helpful and friendly. What story do your hands tell? Is it a story you're satisfied with, or remembering, or are you in the middle of creating something new?

Angi

My husband and I travel and always stop for sunsets. We've got thousands of pictures of them and still aren't tired of seeing another. In fact, we have an entire wall (during the fall) of sunset pictures we've taken. My hands have shared a beer with the ones I love in many places. I hope the story they tell is that I stopped and appreciated the things and people around me.

Jacqui

Coffee gets me moving and makes me stop as well. Get out of bed, make coffee—then settle down at my desk and write. Visit family or friends—and sit with a cup of coffee to talk. Walk to a coffee shop to meet an author friend—and then (with the buzz of the other coffee lovers around us) sit down with our coffees to write and talk about what we wrote or planned to write next. Since the COVID-19 pandemic started, I haven't been to a coffee shop to write with a friend, but I'm hoping to get back to doing this in 2022. Fingers crossed :) The world’s pace seems so hectic that the opportunity to have a getaway where I stop and hold a cup of coffee—and focus on someone’s words or my own—is an opportunity I love seizing. ~ Jacqui 

C.H.

 

The moment I saw the above picture, I thought of my Heavenly Hubby! DJ and I were always digging in our yard to build things: flower gardens, veggie gardens, playhouse for the kids, motorcycle shed (for the 5 motorcycles the men in my life have,) the wisteria arbor, drainage, a patio...the list is huge since we bought our home in 1982. DJ and I never minded getting our hands dirty. We always had the same reaction driving past a field that had just been plowed--we'd take a deep breath loving the smell of the fresh-turned earth. One of the first things I noticed about DJ the day we met--aside from his broad shoulders, bright green eyes, and crooked smile, was his hands. 

            

I sketched DJ's hands for art homework back in '75, and he patiently sat at my folks' kitchen table while I concentrated and tried to do justice to the beauty I saw there. Even at 17 years old, I sensed the strength in them. During our lives together, our children and I depended upon that strength, and he gave it lovingly without question until eleven months ago, when the good Lord called him home. He's waiting for me, and I look forward to grabbing hold of his hands and never letting go.

Amanda

Hands express so much of who we are. In pre-covid days a handshake was a sign of an agreement, integrity. Whether a friendly welcome, a kind pat on the hand, perhaps a grip of courage or joy. Hands tell a story and that has never been more real to me than recently as my family and I walked my husband/their father/his mother’s son home to his eternal life with Jesus.

My husband and I took each other’s hands many times during the years we dated in our last years of high school, clasped in prayer asking for Gods help, Joyfully clasped as we were married, gripping hands-white-knuckled as our kids were born, comforting one another as we said goodbye to parents and finally holding tight, praying for strength after receiving the news of a cancer that gave him only days to live.

I took this picture during one of the last lucid moments during his week-long home hospice stay. To me, it’s a symbol of our wedding vows of “til death do us part”- a few days later, I held his hand and walked him to be home with our Lord. While I miss him terribly, I give praise and thanksgiving that I will see him again down the road. Until then-- as we adopted the psalm verse that began our friendship which turned into 43 years of blessings & love- so will it always stay rooted in my heart. “O magnify the Lord with me. Let us exalt His name together.” (Psalm 34:3)  

Lizbeth

Last month I wrote about my dad who passed away four years ago after battling dementia for ten years. I'm using my memories of Dad one more time here to talk about hands. One thing that is special and a comfort to me is remembering how often I went with my mom to visit, to sit with Dad, and talk to him, to help feed him and hold his hands. But the most special thing from those last years is that, because I am very lucky to babysit my grandchildren once a week, I more often than not spent part of each of our days together bringing them to visit Great-Grandpa. Dad lost his ability to speak during his last three years, but his eyes spoke volumes whenever his greats came to visit. And his hands played such an important part of our visits. We would set baby Riley in Great-Grandpa's lap and push them in the wheelchair together. Dad would not want to let him go and his hands, no matter how frail otherwise, would hold Riley securely. Riley would NEVER cry and would hold Great-Grandpa's thumbs in his tiny fists. Dad would rest his whole hand on Riley's head like a blessing, and I think old and young together would feel peace. We all held hands a lot during those times. Because we didn't have all the words, our hands were our instruments of love and communication. I am blessed to have this picture of Dad's hand topped by Riley's. The old bequeathing life to the young. The young giving comfort to the old. God was so good, holding us in His loving hands, and giving Riley and my dad this first and last year together.

What story do your hands tell? Is it a story you're satisfied with, or remembering, or are you in the middle of creating something new?