hands

Hands. Hands tanned with the sun and years of life. Hands of your mother canning summer black raspberry jam in the kitchen - spooning just a bit of the sweet liquid into your mouth for a taste. Tiny baby hands with their fingers wrapped tight around yours as they bravely take their first steps. Wrinkled hands of your grandmother rolling out Christmas gingerbread for cookies, or biscuits for Sunday supper, or pie crust to welcome a new neighbor. Hands that bring healing, a gentle touch, an encouraging pat on the back. 

I have always been fascinated by the memories that our hands hold. Close your eyes and picture someone you love dearly. I bet you can picture their hands. Can you see the color of their skin, the tiny freckles, fingernails dirty from the garden or painted their signature fire engine red? I have often thought that to be able to picture someone's hands is a sign of the impact that they have had in your life. It’s almost as if our whole life story can sometimes be summed up by our hands. They talk about the sort of work you do and how you use your time. Then, there are the stories that your hands keep hidden from the world. The tears they have wiped, hands held, wounds healed. 

Physically speaking, mine are hands that are tan with some freckles, my grandmother's thick gold wedding band on my right hand and my wedding rings on my left. My pointer fingers on each hand turn in just a bit - similar to the hands of my dad and late grandmother. A little piece of their story in me. I have been thinking about my four children and what they will remember about me and the impact that my two hands have made in their lives? Hands that love to hold a hot cup of coffee. Hands tapping a spoon on the side of a pot while cooking dinner. Hands that love to gather people together. I dream they remember pages of storybooks turned and me rubbing their soft little hands and cheeks as I rock them to sleep at night. My hands, holding theirs, around the dinner table as we say grace before eating each night. Ending with, “Amen!” and then a gentle squeeze. Hands that patch up boo boos, wrap them in hugs when life feels heavy, and give them a little push when they need some courage. Hands that cheer them on because I am their biggest fan in the whole world. Two hands that will one day let go so they can go into the world on their own - but will always be ready to welcome them back home. 

What a beautiful gift that we get to choose the legacy our hands will hold in the minds of those we love. In our homes, communities, and beyond. What story will your hands tell? I am praying that one day, far from now, my hands will show the creases of time, grace, patience, hard work, encouragement, joy, and steadfast love. So. Much. Love. 

Written by Ashley Fassnacht