Hands

When I gave birth to each of my boys, one of the first things I wanted to do was see those sweet little fingers and toes. There's nothing like tiny fingers wrapping around yours. As a child grows older, we continue to treasure the hand. As they learn to walk, we hold on to the little hands to add support. Later, everywhere you go, you give the standard line, "Hold my hand while we cross the street, etc." I knew, as I felt that soft but firm grip, my children trusted me.

When Asa was only about 4 years old, he would draw the most intricate pictures of skeletons. He was absolutely fascinated by them! He drew every joint, every rib, and paid particular interest to the phalanges. He even learned the word phalanges, and loved saying it. He would say, "Mama, tickle me with the phalanges!" and then he'd wiggle his chubby little fingers for emphasis. I naturally followed that with full compliance. I was amazed by what he was able to create with those little fingers and hands. 

I don't know about anyone else, but when my kids reached the age where they no longer needed to hold my hand to walk across the street or through a parking lot, or just simply walked up and took my hand to show me something of great importance, I was sad. I was proud that they felt independent, but I missed them needing my hand. One of the first stages of letting go. 

I used to watch the hands of my grandmother as she crocheted, did her needlepoint, or sewed intricate Barbie outfits for me and my sister. They could make anything she imagined. It's funny though, I don't remember her hands ever looking really young. Beautiful and talented as they were, they had worked hard through her life. They washed clothes in the bathtub. They sewed amazingly beautiful clothes for my aunt and my mom. They were able to make things look beautiful when she didn't have much to work with. They had loved on me when I was sad, and held my hand when I was scared. Her hands were art.

There have been times when I've been sad, or worried, or anxious, and someone has reached for my hand to offer comfort. There's nothing else like that really, is there? I also remember being touched by the hands of a man who loved me. That is a rare feeling for some of us, but priceless. My mom has the coldest hands on earth, but they mask the warmest heart. 

Lately, I'm especially grateful for the opportunities I have to hold Ethan's hands. Not many almost 17 year old boys will still let Mom hold their hands, but we see so little of each other, in the current situation, that he and I both seem to take comfort in it. When I hold his hand, it is still the hand of the little boy who would grab mine and beg me to come sit down and read to him. They are tough, but vulnerable hands. They are growing into man hands, but they are still my little boys'. 

Our hands are of amazing value. They give, and they receive. They hold talent, love, creation, animation, etc, and they hold each other. They fascinate me. The pain in the hands of Christ on the crucifix. How must Mary have felt watching the hands of her child bleed and shake, knowing they were once the hands she held and kissed? I cannot imagine. I see hands, and I see love, comfort, and creation.