Hands hold a special place in my heart. It's possible that I am strange. I am very aware of that. I have always had a "hand-thing". In fact, when I think back to my first boyfriend, I barely remember his face, but I can picture his hands very well. Young, smooth hands, nervously holding mine. My favorite moment at my wedding was putting the wedding ring on my husband's finger, and I can still picture his left hand on that day, glistening for the first time with the symbol of our eternal bond. Bon Jovi concerts are one of my favorite places to be, and when I think of Jon Bon Jovi, I always picture his hands on his black acoustic guitar, effortlessly dancing across the strings making music. It's magic. "Hands" is also an expression that my friend and I say when something happens that is SO FUNNY that we can no longer function. It means, "I'm laughing so hard that I can't feel my hands." It happens to me regularly. I just have to drop my pen, or stop typing, or put the phone down- basically rid my hands of anything that they were occupied by- so that they can flop while I laugh. It's the best, really. My favorite Christmas ornament is the impression of my daughter's one-year-old hand that has been hanging on our tree for 7 years. I can see every line, and chubby indentation and I can instantly picture her tiny baby hands reaching up without a doubt in her mind that I would reach back.
People talk about their "love languages" all the time. It refers to what makes them feel the most loved. I have taken the test, but honestly, it doesn't have the category that applies to me. My love language is hands. This Christmas, instead of buying me gifts to put under the tree, my husband bought lumber, and cement blocks, and he used his hands to make my presents. Last night, we lit a fire and sat around a fire pit that he constructed. My heart was full. For someone to love me enough to use their talents, and their sweet hands, to make me a gift- well, there's nothing better! He's also building our family a kitchen table. Every time he asks me to walk out to the garage to check on the progress, or give my opinion, all I can say is "I love it. You made it with your hands." He doesn't appreciate that response. He wants an actual, objective opinion. But I can't be objective about it. All that I see when I look at it are his hands. Hands covered in sawdust, full of splinters, with stain stuck around each fingernail, holding sandpaper. Hands curiously examining the texture of the table- is it smooth enough? Is it ready? I want it in my house whenever he deems it ready to be here. He and his hands.
I hope people realize the power in their hands. Hands can write words that inspire, encourage, and tell a story that takes people to far off places. Hands can lift someone up from a dark place, or stroke the fevered head of a child in the middle of the night. Hands can fold in prayer, and move mountains. One hand can grasp another, and tell someone- you're not alone. Hands can make music that moves people to tears, or dinner that feeds hungry faces. They are small. Just ten little fingers.
But hands have the power to do great things.
"I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back."
Maya Angelou
