Hands

Hands. Such a strange thing to always steal my attention, but it never fails. Where some look through the eyes to see the soul, I think that hands tell the truest story of someone’s life. You can say you played sports without uttering your past conditioning ritual. You can say you are a chef by close calls and knicks.

I remember hearing when I was younger “hands and neck never lie”. That was before the world of fillers and fat transfer into hands, which yes are a thing. However, there is beauty in hands. There is beauty in asking about the stories that created the scars. The beauty is truly in the discovery. I see hands and I think of life. Planning a trip to Italy has me excited to see the representation of hands in art. Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam has always mesmerized me.

The creation of things through hands shows us what is to be made in God’s image as the creator. I’ve seen hands create houses, create coding, create passion, and bring life. I know of hands around a gavel that change the complete direction of one’s future. I know hands that forever rest in the same position as the casket is closed. Hands have a story.

When I think of my own hands, I think of my right hand that underwent surgery to regain functionality. As a person who’s right-hand dominant, I remember the car accident and the fear I experienced while looking at my arm. I remember the threat of different that let out barely audible sobs. Then I remember being in church and clapping for the first time since surgery. It was delicate and glorious. It was unintentional as most things should be when worshiping the Most High. These hands made me smile, then laugh, then cry because I knew I was creating. Creation of a new normal. Creation of a life of forgiveness beginning with myself.

Then hands took a turn in 2023 when I saw my Daddy’s hands in his beautiful casket. I saw how the funeral home placed his hands, which was the same way he positioned them, the same way I position mine. And I smiled. I knew these hands were my gift. The prior year, I tattooed a vine on them symbolizing John 15, verse 5 in particular, “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit…” As a writer, I got the tattoo as a reminder to use the gifts God provides. As a writer, these hands are my tools. My dad had different tools. He had the hammer and drill to paint his story. We both have the Word of the Lord.

While my hands sit at rest as my dad’s sit at rest permanently, I know I have to get up where he can no longer. I know the beauty of hands will continue to tell a story. So, I get up today to tell my story. I think it’s a story worth sharing.