My Hands

As I was in the kitchen today, cursing at my hands for dropping yet another cup, yet another time, I looked down at the lumps of bone, muscle and skin that were causing me so much trouble.  With this disease I have had a slow digression of grip, and functionality.  Slow.  Unnoticeable from day to day, but in retrospect, crystal clear.  The best way I can describe it is an overall weakness and lack of connection between what your brain is telling them to do and what they are actually doing.  It is like how your hands feel after being in the cold too long, just sort of numb and useless, like you're still wearing your mittens.  So, it is no wonder my poor hands get the brunt of my aggravation.  But, as I was standing there in the kitchen, about to kick the damn dishwasher and scream, I looked down at my hands and something shifted. 

It was a shift in perspective. I have so many times wished I could just cut the damn things off, trade out the defective for bionic hands, hand transplant, whatever... but today, I was looking at them and began to think of how grateful I am for them. All of the things they have allowed me to do. 

I have always had a strange fascination with hands.  They are often the first thing I look at in a person. I find myself staring at people's hands all the time, watching how they function, what they look like, how they use them.  If I were a gifted sketch artist, I could draw a perfect replica of my mother's hands for how many times I have stared at them over the years, my father's too.  My husband's hands are perfect in my memory, and I bet if I have spent any good amount of time with you, I could pick your hands out of a line up as well.  I am not sure why I have always focused on them, perhaps it was God's way of telling me to not take them for granted, knowing the path that was laid out before me well before I did. 

My hands.  No matter how gnarled, or swollen, crooked, red, stiff, dry, cracked,  or sore they are, they are still mine. The changes in them reflect the changes in me.  Their age, my age. Every crooked knuckle represents a mountain that I had to climb, every wrinkle, a weight that has been carried.  These hands, despite their challenges, have allowed me so many blessings. 

These are the hands that have wiped away tears, held bottles, cooked dinner, written love notes.  They are the hands that have held books that have changed my world and the way I view it, they have been the instrument to my creativity, the tools to my crafts, and the way I survive.

These are the hands that clasp in prayer.  These are the hands that are teaching my children to do the same. These are the hands that held my mother's as I learned to walk.  They are the same hands that grasped my father's arm as he walked me down the wedding isle. They have held the hands of my grandparents in the days before they have passed. They are the hands that have caressed and have been kissed by my husband, and have held the sweet pink newness of my children the moment they entered into this world. 

They have been covered in mud, glue, paint, sweat, and blood. They have planted, sewn, cooked, cleaned, rocked, held, wiped, spanked, slapped, pinched, clapped, waved.  They have been used for anger, fear and for revenge, but also for compassion, for tenderness, and for love.  They have explored the world around me, kept me safe from danger, and allowed me to experience they joy in feeling and touch. 

These hands are me.  Not broken. Not limited. They have had to find new ways of doing things, just as I have, and like me, they have had to retrain their methods.  They have taught me patience and acceptance.  They have taught me how not to let go.  They have never failed me when it mattered. 

Today, my perspective shifted. My hands are not defective... They are beautiful because they carry my life with them, all that I am, all that I was, and all that I will be are in those hands.