Hands
I have the broad hands of a German peasant farmer.
My hands are covered in the little scars of a careless life. Tiny chemical burns from High School chem lab. Fine knife scars from Boy Scout camp. Calluses on the knuckles from time spent with a heavy bag and doing pushups on clenched fists. Deeper scars from doing my own, inexpert, home repairs. Gouges from sharp metal inside computer cases.
My hands are strong enough to hold gallons of paint like a weekend athelete palms a basketball. Usually, my nails are uneven and bitten, the cuticles worried raw through absent-minded bad habits. I have old, smooth calluses on my palms, from my attempts at lifting weights, that have softened with time. But, for all that, I think they’re gentle hands.
They’re not the delicate hands of an artist. My fingers are short and broad. Not meant for etherial works of beauty, but the hard labor of the field. And, I have used these miracles of physiology hard. Time spent with nails and concrete and paint and glass. These hands of mine have tightened pipes and fittings and bolts that others would have needed a wrench to secure. Strong hands that have hurt people, both intentionally and accidentally. Never used like my father or grandfather or great-grandfather, all of who worked, at one time or another, in hard manual labor, but, still, hands that find a way when they have no choice.
I’m lucky, really, to have hands like that, but, truth be told, I always wanted those beautiful, delicate hands of an artist. Deft hands that pour magic out through a pen or pencil or brush. Hands that create beautiful art, art that makes the breath catch in your throat. I tell myself that they’re good hands. That gentle strength is good enough. That someone, someday, will hold those hands and smile. That those soft, strong hands will hold someone and make her feel safe and secure, even if only for a moment in a darkened theater while a slasher stalks the screen. I pray that those broad hands will one day hold a small child and make her feel safe, too. That those hands traced with tiny, careless scars will be daddy’s hands. Will be the safe passage from one side of the street to the other.
Hands are miracles made flesh. All the little bones and tight tendons and strong muscle that let us touch our world. That let us push and pull and poke and prod our world into the shape we make it. Hands can hold a weapon or a pen and change the world forever. They can show an opponent how we hate. Or a loved one how we care.
But, tonight, I’ll fold my hands and thank God for my miracles, both large and small. And, I’ll pray that He can use those hands to work a little more and, maybe, work a miracle or two yet.
