Hands Tell a Story
by Terri Bonin
I’ve become obsessed with hands.
No, really. It’s weird. If we have coffee, you’ll catch me looking at yours and it might make you want to hide them under the table…but don’t!!! …A good pair of hands tell an interesting story about a person and I’m the curious type that wants to hear it.
The most boring hands are the perfect ones, the ones that only speak of a nail salon and not much else. But don’t let me fool you, I have a regular date with my favorite nail lady, because yes, I’m the high maintenance type, but seriously, perfectly manicured hands just don’t interest me like worn-out hands. I recently purchased a children’s book titled Hands Say I Love You and now it’s official, I’m obsessed. I want to know why you have a bandage on your pointer, a scar on your thumb, a burn on your palm. Don’t hide yours if you have callouses on your fingers from playing the guitar or holding a detailed instrument for hours on end, instead, let’s talk.
Because I’m obsessed…
I want to talk to the owners of hands that have tenderly cared for others for years on end. Hands that have been so busy, they ache. Hands that have prepared 5000 meals, braided 1000 braids, flipped tens of thousands of pages in storytime, filled 10,000 cavities, painted hundreds of canvases, tilled gardens for decades. You get the point.
I ponder the hands that belong to those closest to me and the stories they tell.
When I think about my dad’s hands I see his fingers tumbling up and down the piano moving faster than my eyes can follow. I see his hands directing a large choir in beautiful music or one of my favorites: I see him hold them out as an invitation to lead me in a swing dance with twirling and turning. Trust me, it takes skilled strong hands to keep me moving in the right direction on the dance floor and his hands definitely win the prize in that skill. (Sorry, Honey! Let’s admit that we still trip over each other and give my dad the dancing prize!) I love my dad’s hands.
I adore my mom’s hands. When I think about her hands I see them pressing fabric underneath the bobbing needle of her sewing machine as she creates a unique item for someone she loves. I see her hands playing the piano or pointing to music as she patiently teaches a child. Her hands ache today because she has literally worn them out by loving others with her constant care. I love her hands.
I love my husband’s hands. I love to hold them. Look at them. Watch them work. Well…that’s actually a stretch. If it weren’t for the patient’s mouths he dives into, I would love to watch his hands work. But my point is…
I. Love. His. Hands.
I do. I even pray for his hands. His hands provide for our family and make me feel loved when he reaches for me, picks up a child, or massages my back. I don’t take his hands for granted; they are the best and I’m glad I’m the one that gets to hold them.
I love chubby little hands that run wild with red lipstick in all the wrong places. I love growing thin hands that carefully hold a pencil while practicing cursive handwriting. I love all the hands that belong to the people God has placed in my life. Young, growing, and old alike.
Whose hands do you especially love?
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