Hands

Good Morning!  It's muggy and cloudy in South Central Texas ... the storms covering North Texas escaped us which was good.  I always get concerned about the big old tree in our backyard.  It has a habit of shedding branches and leaves at the slightest breeze!!


I have been working outside at the little casa trying to create a nesting area where I can read, reflect and do my writing.  The area is quite large compared to the back yard at our home north of Dallas.  I looked at my hands last night and thought, "Oh, goodness, I have the hands of a woman who has dug in the dirt A LOT!"  I decided to take a break, give myself a manicure and soak my hands in lotion.  I laughed, there was a time when this city girl didn't know much about gardening and got a manicure every two weeks ... yes, before arthritis and gardening, I had pretty hands.  Now?  Well, let's just say that my hands have lived life to the fullest!

For some reason, I like looking at people's hands and remember them just like some people remember faces.  We can love with our hands; talk with our hands; work with our hands; read with our hands; cook and feed ourselves and others with our hands; show anger with our hands; pray with our hands; and, in general, express any type of emotion there is.  When, my arthritis attacked my hands, it was difficult for me to type and write and I mourned my dexterity.  Then, I realized that God put me on this earth to love His people and that I can do with my hands in many ways.

Bestemor, my Norwegian grandmother, was a seamstress by trade, a hard worker with a gentle spirit.  She wore a gold ring on her left hand with a bloodstone at the center.  She created a playhouse for me and served me cookies and Kool Aid.  She held me on her lap long after I had become an adult and would caress my hair with her hands and sing Norwegian songs to me.  She would smile and I would hold her hands in mine.  Oh how I loved those hands!

My father's hands were those of a working man.  Although he developed arthritis in his 40's, his hands were soft ... he wore gloves whenever he worked outdoors.  I remember him sitting on a chair by the kitchen drinking coffee, and smoking one cigarette after another.  He would rub his hands together telling me that they were painful.  I would ask what was wrong and he would say, "Arthur got me."  I can close my eyes and see his hands ... his hands provided for his immediate family and, often times, for his mother and sister.  He was a diligent worker always doing what was necessary.  My father's hands carried a rifle in World War II and he protected his country.  Unfortunately, the war affected him emotionally and he carried so much pain inside of him.  There were times I remember him holding his head in his hands.  Too much to remember?  He loved my mother with his hands and cared for her when she became ill with Rheumatoid Arthritis.  He was her partner in life.

My mother had beautiful hands.  She had long slender fingers and I laugh when I remember her sitting in the chair in the front room, filing her nails to a point.  She loved to paint her nails leaving the moon at the base of her nails unpainted.  My mother's hands were that of a business woman.  She took shorthand, typed a mile a minute and took pride in her penmanship.  My mother didn't care much for working outside or gardening ... her hands were soft and always smelled like Jergens lotion.  It was always important for my mother to look "put together" from head to toe.  She was one of those people whose hands could apply red lipstick artfully.  Later in life, her hands were gnarled from arthritis.  I would hold them and wish I could straighten her fingers so that she could once again write beautifully.  It bothered my mother that her once lovely hands were so deformed and that she wrote with such a scribble.  I am glad that she is in Heaven and whole again!!

When my children were born, I unwrapped them and held them close to my heart whispering prayers that they would be strong in who God created them to be.  It was a wonderful time of bonding.  As they grew older not only did my hands offer them love and encouragement but also provided financially for them.  No matter how old my children get, my hands will be open to them doing what I can to make their way on this earth a little easier.  When my grandchildren began arriving, there were new little lives to hold ... Brittany, Baleigh, Madison, Katrina, Zachary, Nicholas, Chloe, Camden...  What an honor to be a grandmother.  I am now using my hands to tell them who I am and what I am about so that they will truly know me just as I wish to know them.

 
For Christians this is Holy Week.  Raised in the Lutheran tradition, I looked so forward to the special services ... getting ashes wiped on my head on Ash Wednesday, the somberness of Good Friday, and, the festiveness of Easter Sunday.  It makes me sad that out of political correctness, Easter has become so skewed.  I heard recently that the Easter Egg Hunt in a local community was being called the Spring Orb Hunt.  Ridiculous!!!!!  My Savior, Jesus, used his hands to comfort and to teach ... it was his hands that were pierced with nails that he wouldn't fall off the cross.  Oh, what a treasure it will be to someday touch his hands and say, "Thank you!"

What do your hands say about you?  Am I the only nut on this earth who looks at hands?  This morning, my hands fed my puppies, dressed me, drove me to get Mom to take her to the doctor, dressed Mom and helped the nurse hold her up so the doctor could look at her bedsore, hugged my husband good bye, drove my friend to lunch, fed me, cut my hair, and now, my hands are working on my blog.  Busy creatures, they are!!!  I want to use my hands for good all the days of my life and I think about who I touch and what they tell about me.

I leave you today with prayers and blessings.  May your hands lift you to new heights this day and always...

The Praying Hands