Hands

Hands.

They tell stories. They tell about who a person really is. They are a peeking hole into our very souls. 

I've always been intrigued with people's hands, especially with family and close friends.  I'm not sure what the exact reason is, except I could stare at them and look at each wrinkle, dark mark, callous, groomed or not groomed fingernail, scratch, scar etc and see that person's heart in their own hands.   In fact, as an adult I can remember what people's hands look like, even if I haven't seen them in a long time,  and that same old respect for WHO they are, stamped in my brain right along with recognition of their face and personality, shows up like I'd seen them yesterday. Weird? A gift? I don't know. But I honestly wish I had taken pictures of some of those beloved hands, that we have lost, as a reminder of their 
most loving memory. We all have pictures of their faces, but in the hands speak a whole different and cherished chapter of memories; What they did, what they loved, and the story of a LIFE. 

 As a little girl I loved my daddy's hands. Chubby fingers, short fingernails, calloused palms, rough skin and sometimes stained with the day's oilfield work dirt and smell.  I got butterflies when he'd hold my hand or pat my leg with love. And to this very day his calloused hands can steal my heart with a simple love pat on the hand. I love looking at his hands because they tell so many truths about my Daddy! He's always been a hard worker, and always cared about his fitness, plays a little with a rope, which may all show up in his hands, but the inside is a ball of mush... no calluses, no roughness, just love . He's a teddy bear and the simple sound of disappointment in his voice was enough to crush my soul as a young girl. Those hands are strong and so is the love of my Daddy. 

My daddy's hands left an impression in my heart:  No boy would with soft hands would ever suffice when looking for "the one".  When I first met Jared, one of the 1st things I noticed was his hands-- calloused, rough, work hands...In love!  But again, told me a lot about who I had just met.  And almost 10 years later, I'd say his hands spoke the truth. And could I close my eyes and describe every nook, scratch, and scar on his hands? Ya darn right!  My favorite guy in the world and the hands that protect and provide for our little family.  What a blessing!

Grandmother hands are a whole different chapter, but in the same story.  I think I obsessed with my Nanny's hands when I was a little girl because I started seeing her age before my own eyes. haha!  I remember seeing a new brown spot on her hand and I'd ask what happened  EVERY SINGLE TIME I NOTICED A NEW ONE. I got the same answer, "It's just old age, Chrissie.".  Wrinkles began getting more noticeable too.  Same answer.  I was young but realized that time ticks and all of us would weather in just the same way some day. Nanny took such great care of her lawn. She always got great compliments on how pretty her yard was, which she groomed and cut herself.  In return, her hands weren't always the softest, they too had rough spots and a callous or two. But they became the soft most caring hands you ever did know when grand kids came around. Hands that would do just about anything that her grands asked, without question, sometimes. Hands that taught us so much about the simple things in life. Hands that weren't always polished perfect, but  showed what life was all about.  And I'm absolutely blessed that my own daughter gets to love the same hand that once helped lead me into the big busy world. 

My Munner's hands, bless her soul, were definitely one of a kind. Arthritis completely warped her poor joints. Her fingers were slowly but surely turning and her joints were becoming less bendable. I know that she probably had limited movement on some days, but you never, NEVER heard her complain about her aches and pains. Those hands cooked the most wonderful food you might have ever tasted, and dug in the dirt to produce one of the best gardens of roses AND vegetables I think you CAN accomplish while living within the city limits.  They also did not ever hesitate to turn pages within the "Good Book" to explain or answer any of our life lessons. She undoubtedly broke the mold as the everyday working woman, in a man's world. Those hands.... those hands accomplished much in her lifetime and didn't seize to work, even as age began to slow her down. 

That wondrous day when we were finally blessed with a tiny little girl, my life was changed. My heart was changed. My faith was changed. In that big NICU room full of beeps and alarms and nurses and the constant reminder of the frailty of life, I prayed daily that my baby girl would grow and thrive so that we could take her home. And although tiny and some days a little sick, I was always able to touch and LOVE her baby hands through that plastic barrier that separated us. I couldn't hold her when I wanted to and I may not could kiss her little mouth quite yet, but Braylin and I bonded through the simple touch of our hands.  Nothing was taken for granted. Most people get to hold their baby, but my special angel and I only had our hands...  and those little hands are tattooed on my heart. I know every single little crease and bump and wrinkle.  At night time, I still love to grab her little hands and hold them against my face, and I promise to the stars that I can feel the love seeping through her tiny fingers. Those little hands are my very own.  I know them like I've never known another set of hands... and I'm simply blessed. 

Hands. 

They tell a story and can warm a heart. In God's big world, I pray that we can all see the hidden portraits that tell stories and speak to our souls. For the real beauty and blessings in this world are ALL God given. 

Grab your favorite hand, appreciate it's beauty, and thank God for creating such a masterpiece in your life.