Sunday, September 23, 2007


In our family we hold hands all the time, it is one of "our things".

Today, I thought about my children's hands. The image so vivid, I started to ponder how important hands are to me. I started thinking about how soft they are and the way they feel inside my hands. I pictured in my minds eye the round fullness of my littlest one's hands, how dirty his fingernails get and how he holds a pencil. The elegance which is making it's way into my middle child's hands as she learns ballet and how to sew. I find the large clunkyness of my oldest sons hands so sweet, as he crosses the threshold into young manhood, and how every time he hugs me they are stronger. My husbands hands, powerful, calloused, kind and gentle I always have great need for these hands. His hands pray for me and held our children tenderly when they were small babies. His hands make me coffee and tirelessly type on our computers to earn a living. These hands fix the toilet, tune the cars, make the best fried potatoes, chop firewood, catch salmon, even bring me ice cream.

When I was a child I remember holding my Dad's hand. We would skip down the road together. We would go faster and faster until we were full on skip-racing all the while holding each other's hand. Oh, what a pure joy that was for me, having my fathers undivided attention. His hands also built things and tickled me till I squeeled for more or wet my pants.

I love my mothers hands. They can take something ordinary and mold or sketch it into something so beautiful, something I would have never come up with. When I was younger her fingernails were often filled with paint or clay or dirt from the garden, the remenats of her creative journey that day. Her hands also gently tickled my face or back and sent me into deep relaxed sleep which was so comforting after a bad dream or just a rough day.

The hands of my grandparents Mimi and Papa. I get teary just thinking about their jouney through this life. The wrinkles and spots of age, proof of time worn longevity. The world may have seen them as old but I thought they were lovely. These are the hands that taught me to crochet and picked me fresh raspberries with cream and sugar before I arose into the morning sunshine. These hands wrote letters of encourangement when I was in college and stories about their lives before they died so that I wouldn't forget my heritage. These hands showed me how to pray, polished rocks, and picked the best peaches.

I have seen the hands of God working in my life holding me when I am broken by my sin or gently pressed on my head to bless me because He is so good. I have seen them comfort the discouraged and rejected through anothers kindness. I have seen His hands turn the oceans gray to match the cloud filled sky and cause His heavens to pour out His rain. I have seen His hands breath life into wee babies by the tight fisted wail they first cry. Oh, I will never tire of seeing God's Hands working, pushing, guiding, comforting, holding those around me and some day when I sit at the throne of my Lord I may even get to hold His hand.

Wouldn't that be something!

1 comment:

Laura Campbell said...

Your hands have creatively rendered what the eyes of your beautiful heart sees. I’m so deeply blessed by your words, your thoughts, how special the little things in life are to you.

Just wanted to say Thank You! Your blog continues to be a gift to me.