My Hands

I wish I had taken a picture of my hands every year of my life. I could have chronicled my life in a very explicit manner if I had. I also wish I had a picture of my mother's hands. I can't quite remember what they looked like. I don't think my hands look much like hers ... but maybe they do ... or did. I'm a good year plus older than she was when she died. My mother was a pianist. Most of my memories of her hands -- well, really ideas of memories -- are of them moving across the piano keys. I remember the first time I heard and watched her play the boogie woogie. I was never the same after that. I was so ultimately impressed by my mother's talent. All I could think was that I would never be able to play like that. And I never was.

I wear one of her rings most of the time. I have a vague recollection of the way it looked on her hand. I remember the stone had fallen out once and she was in a panic. Lucky Mother found that diamond on her bathroom floor. She found another lost stone teetering on the welting edge of a car seat. Lucky. Yeh, lucky. Dead at 47. Hmmmmm. My sisters and I also joke about the "backhand" and the diamond that might catch our cheeks if we were cheeky. The hand that could discipline ... Thanks for that. I learned.

Tonight as I glance down at my own hands I see age -- but I'm not distraught. I have soothed sorrows and pain -- wiped away tears -- bathed babies -- put on bandaids -- and even given injections with these hands. I have brushed my daughter's thick, beautiful hair and cut my husband's black curls with these hands. I have sewn clothes and knit socks for my son with these hands. I have baked cookies, crimped pies, peeled potatoes and kneaded bread with these hands. I have fingered notes on my flute and directed singers -- even arranged music with these hands. They haven't let me down. Yet. The last few weeks one of my thumbs has had that pang of arthritis. I've had it before -- in the same thumb and, sometimes, a pinky -- but, thus far, the discomfort has always passed. I think the pain is fading even as I write. I hope so.

My aunt had crippling rheumatoid arthritis and developed it at a very young age -- probably around 24. She had studied and trained to be a surgical nurse and was brokenhearted when she was unable to continue her career due to the effects in her hands. I never knew her without the painful disfiguration that she suffered in her hands and feet from that arthritis -- and have always thought it a very cruel affliction that she endured with such beauty and grace. I will always think of her hands as beautiful, loving hands -- as they prepared and served meals in her home year after year -- and how, somehow, she maintained her distinctive handwriting -- somehow unaffected. I loved her hands.

My kids' hands resemble their grandfather's more than mine or David's. David's father's hands, not my father's hands. My son uses his fingers just like his grandfather -- the way they manipulate a knot or handle small items. It's uncanny. But his hands form the same shape that David's did on the guitar. I remember the way David's hands fingered his unique chords on his guitar -- and what they looked like picking the intricate patterns of his songs. I remember the way they looked the day he put this little diamond on my left hand and they way they cradled our newborn daughter. Her hands have their own beauty as they, too, go up and down the piano keyboard, making beautiful music that I wish I could make.

A few nights ago I celebrated the birthday of a dear friend and gifted her with a cake. It made me remember some of the great cakes I used to create with my own hands. Were I in another time in my life, perhaps I would have formed the rosettes on her cake myself! Instead, it was my hands that cradled her cake in the pictures of her blowing out the candles -- like so many pictures in our family albums. Some day one of those pictures might stand-out to a grandchild, as they realize that those were my hands in the old pictures -- lovingly offering a cake made with love by Grandma Leslie -- or Great Grandma Leslie. That's a comforting thought!

I miss holding hands with David. In the later years of our marriage, we didn't do it all that often -- but when we did, it was poignant and I always made a note of it: Hold hands more often! Sometimes, it was better than a kiss. These days, I am sometimes taken aback, but always thrilled when my daughter grabs my hand and publicly walks with me down sidewalks and inside stores. She's 20. Imagine, if you will, the gratification -- the sheer love that I receive in that simple act. Bliss.

Since the kids have returned to school, I use these old hands to text random greetings -- to check on loved ones -- to share information. Somehow they have adjusted to the touchscreen keyboard! I thought I'd never be able to change from the numberpad with the satisfying bounce and beep, but I've successfully made the switch. Of course, sometimes the result can be quite humorous. "I live you" is a common error. My son likes to mock me on that one. Oh well. Hopefully, the message gets through anyway.

Another thing I miss is writing notes. Before all of this adventure, I was a note writer -- a card sender. I still try, but it's just not the same. It was a spiritual discipline for me. I wrote to my aunt with the arthritic hands almost weekly. I had a friend who was experiencing very aggressive cancer and wrote to her regularly until she died. I sent pretty regular cards to a couple other young widows, too ... some weird sort of foreshadowing?

But last night I got to use these hands to comfort and feed a friend -- to hold her hand and ladle soup. I think that sums it up -- hands to comfort -- to serve -- to pray -- to create -- to touch -- to love. Mine are a little wrinkly-looking these days, especially in the dry winter cold, but they are still my hands and I get to decide how to use them. And I am accountable for how I use them. Thank you, God, for hands.