My Hands

Sometimes I look at my hands and gasp, “oh my gosh…these are my Grandma’s hands, how can that be?” I lament that they are veiny, wrinkled and crooked.  Oh the agony of age spots, the gnarly knuckles of arthritis….why hast thou forsaken me?? I try more lotion, different lotion, wear gloves more often and hide them whenever possible.  That is….I used to.

I had a realization, not long ago, that my hands have character and distinction, even beauty . They tell a sweet story that hasn’t always had happy endings. They are an outward sign of an inward soul and a life well lived.

These hands have held babies and swaddled them with love and tenderness. These hands have prepared nourishing meals and sliced apples to share with grandchildren. These fingers have held a needle and thread to sew on a button or mend a sock. They’ve also held a face and wiped a tear to mend a broken heart.  These hands have graded papers, pointed the way, applauded and prayed.

My hands tell their own story of life and love and the more I realize that, the more in awe I am.   I’m proud to have these hands that remind me of my Grandma.  I’m thankful for these hands that say I’ve lived my life.   I’m amazed at all the opportunities I’ve had to touch others and I am deeply grateful for the hands that have held mine along the way.


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