Some people notice eyes. Some people notice smiles. I love those things as well, but I also have a strong affection for hands. They say so much about a person and their journey in this life.
I love the soft, flat hands of an infant, with the pudgy tapered fingers and the dimpled knuckles. The palms that have no callouses, no imprints of trial or struggle. Yet those delicate fingers are so surprisingly strong as they grip your own. I love the big "ham" hands of a toddler that are still figuring out their dexterity. Clumsily trying to tie knots, open jars, grip scissors and all manner of other trouble-making things. The way they slip into yours for a walk, how they're always a little bit sticky and clammy and soft in that baby way that they have almost completely outgrown.
I love my husband's hands. We formed our friendship chanting side by side at church, and he would hold open the service books with one hand. His fingers are long and strong, calloused with oval nails that always have dirt or engine oil or whatever debris you get from construction and outdoor work on them. They are covered in little scars from cuts and blisters, and the pads of his fingers and the inside of his palms are rough and tough from years of manual work. He has one long scar on the outside of his thumb from when he sliced through his tendon while cutting trees---the saw cut was tiny, but then the plastic surgeon had to make it larger to go retrieve the tendon (and the plastic surgeon was called because my husband is a pianist--albeit no longer playing because he chose construction over performance, and the surgeon's stitches were going to be more precise than the ER doctor on call at the time). In the evenings, when the kids give him a moment to himself, he will sit down in front of our piano and play through the repertoire of pieces that he still remembers. It is lovely to see his hands fly across the keys while our little army of girls whirl around him, dancing to the music.
Growing up, I had the stereotypical self-image issues that a lot of teenagers struggle with, but I had always been satisfied with my hands. When I had to get fingerprinted for work a whole lifetime ago, the people inking my hands mentioned that I have amazing fingerprints (the most unusual compliment I've received, but one that left me tickled). I have a large button shaped scar on one hand because as a child I fell asleep reading far past my bedtime next to a halogen lamp, and it fell and burned the skin there. Rather than go tell my parents (because I didn't want to get in trouble for staying up and reading), I dressed it myself and went to bed. Priorities.
I have the remnants of a callous on my thumb from the thumbrest of my clarinet, and toughened skin on the tips of my index fingers from the countless nights of embroidery I have weathered.
I received two things from my grandmothers. I have my paternal grandmother's face, and I have my maternal grandmother's hands. I noticed this when I was sitting beside her hospital bed before she passed away. She was so thin from being ill, but her hands remained as strong as I had remembered. Her fingers matched mine. The skin on her hands was still so soft and smooth despite her age (give credit to that Korean skincare regimen!). They were warm and strong, and she wrapped her fingers around mine as she slept. I love my hands because they remind me of her.
Along with the rest of me, when we moved to our little farmhouse, my hands underwent a transformation as well. I used to really care about my hands, a tube of hand lotion in every bag, on my desk, in the car, sometimes in my pocket. They were the hands of an academic and dreamer. I still consider myself a forever student and still have dreams (probably bigger dreams) but now, they are roughened and dry and chapped from working in the soil without gloves (I have so many pairs of gardening gloves but I always forget to grab some on my way out... or else I'm just passing along and stop to replant something or pull out a weed. The texture of them is more pronounced because there's always dirt or fruit juice stains on them. I'm often rubbing the tips of my fingers, so aware now of how rough they have become. They snag on soft fabrics but provide a more satisfying scratch to the first few mosquito bites I've been getting as the weather warms.
While I worked as a lab tech, my nails were always kept trim and clean, and now they are broken, chipped, scratched and dry because I am brutal to my hands. My one burn scar now has several accompanying scar friends because I am clumsy in the kitchen and am always burning or cutting myself. I am doing one too many things at once, or am trying to peer over the top of a baby's head or keeping an eye on a toddler with exploring fingers. I've got blisters and callouses and marks where splinters have been pulled out or just broken off because I can't get them out. But my hands now are strong. I can grip a log with just my finger tips to toss onto the fire or stack into a wheel barrow. They dig for hours. They can throw bales of hay and haul bags of feed. They have raised four babies, illustrated books, embroidered icons, planted trees and flowers and literally grabbed a cow by its horns.
In terms of manual labor, this year has been the hardest year yet (and we're only just in April). I'm sure my hands will continue to feel the brunt of this work. Every blister, every callous, every cut and scar are proof of the labor they have wrought, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
What story do your hands tell?
Such a beautiful reflection.