Hands Hold Love

Accepting hands

I recall the emotions associated with dating. At the age of 17, dressed in only enough clothes to cover the essentials, with cold drinks in hand, Randy, my boyfriend then, my husband now, and I prepared for the three-hour rafting trip.

Just before getting in the water, he offered to rub suntan lotion on my back. Fear struck me because as with most teens, acne covered my face and shoulders. I wore my hair long, to cover the ugly, red pimples. As I searched for words to politely say, “No way!” he moved forward, held my hair up with one hand, and applied the ointment with the other.

He didn’t vomit, comment, or grimace. I never expected that. As we climbed in the raft, I knew I was helpless around this guy because he accepted me for who I was.

Innocent hands

I never knew what my-six-year old daughter’s hands might do next. One afternoon they turned the doorknob so she could enter and introduce her new friend to me. This would have been a pleasant experience if the door had not led to the bathroom, and I was not in the bathtub. In her innocence, she smiled and continued with the introductions while I slipped my body below the bubbles and suggested they play in the bedroom.

Exploring Hands

My daughter reminded me constantly that she was learning with her hands through her creations and mistakes. One afternoon when she was traveling with her grandpa she asked, “If someone does something bad and they are sorry, will they get in trouble?”

His answer was loving but naïve, “Well, if they are sorry I don’t think they should get in trouble.”

So she was free to confess, “Papa, I dropped my shoe out the window.” His hands maneuvered the steering wheel, as they went in search of a shoe.

Supportive hands

Dressed in white pants and shirt, Dad wiped his hands on a flour-dusted apron. Having washed them multiple times since he arrived at the bakery at 3:00 am, they were not dirty, simply covered in particles of the last items added to the 25-gallon mixing bowl.

Minutes later, as he extended a wooden paddle 5 feet into the gut of the oven to capture the bread pans and extract them, I became aware of the strength in his hands. As he banged the pans to loosen the sides of the loaves and dumped them on the wood butcherblock, a sweet aroma embraced my senses. To this day the smell of fresh bread makes me feel loved. Dad’s automated hand movements demonstrated his strength to protect and provide for us, his family.

Comforting hands

After a long day at work, I stood in the kitchen browsing a cookbook deciding what to cook for dinner. My daughter asked, “May I rub your back?” Her hands felt like a cool breeze on a sultry day. Katie’s small hands often reminded me that she was a child. When she misbehaved and my temper flared, by touching her wiggling fingers and fragile hands my body relaxed and calmness prevailed.

Guiding hands

Recently as I had a conversation with my daughter, Katie, now a mother of two girls. The words spoken are gone but a memory of events stays with me. I watched as her daughter took a marker and drew on her own belly. Katie gently moved the marker to paper and praised the baby’s scribbles. When the child’s hands moved the marker to her her leg, Kate redirected her again to the evolving picture on the paper. Teaching her where to leave her mark.

Learning to handle life’s moments

When I looked at my class of students, faces with adult features stared back. They spoke with mature vocabularies, and their bodies often towered above mine. Because of Katie, I often found myself observing their hands. I’ve noticed the smoothness of youth but also the awkwardness of inexperience. I have seen hands that go home to dolls, Legos, computer games, and other creative toys.

Unfortunately, I also see hands burdened by worries and worn by responsibilities. Some go home to the daily duties of watching younger siblings and household chores. A few work at demanding evening jobs. And some go home to children of their own. These hands are not imitating life but producing it.

Loving hands

The young man who rubbed lotion on my back those many years ago to protect me from the penetrating rays of the sun has stood beside me for forty years. He fed my mother when she couldn’t feed herself. When he disciplined our daughters and said, “This hurts me more than it does me.” It did. He rubbed my shoulders when the stress seemed insurmountable. Love is action in motion that I feel in his hands.

Life lines

My hands show age. The veins bulge close to the surface of thin skin that has grown wrinkled and creased. They soothed my children when they cried. My fingers pointed out mistakes to students so they could grow intellectually. Sitting beside Dad’s hospital bed, holding his hand, I told him good-bye. Life’s moments often handed me heavy loads but I was successful because I never had to carry burdens alone. I am supported by the hands of others.

When life hands you challenges, look to others for support. Remember that many hands make light work and an embrace is simply hands sharing the commonality of love.