Hands

Ever since Mom's accident, I've been doing a lot of thinking about hands. I remember when Dad spoke about his deceased mother and what her hands meant to him. He spoke of the hard work she performed with those hands--Idaho farm work. Raised during the depression, my dad watched his mother sew him pants made from old flour sacks and come up with a delicious meal from seemingly empty cupboards. All with her hands.

My mother's hands have served us children (and so many others) equally well. Rolling out pie crusts and sewing ribbons on pointe shoes and planting tomatoes...

Hands are powerful. They are beautiful. They are symbolic. Call me cheesy, but I keep singing Jewel's song in my head (I have listened to a lot of Jewel in my day).

If I could tell the world just one thing

It would be that we're all OK

And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful

And useless in times like these

I won't be made useless

I won't be idle with despair

I will gather myself around my faith

For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know

But they're not yours, they are my own

But they're not yours, they are my own

And I am never broken...

In the end, only kindness matters.

I like those words. A lot. There is power in them.

The greatest discourse I have ever heard about hands is this one. Again, strength and symbolism.

Mum, I know you are frustrated right now. But you won't be made useless. Gather yourself around your faith. And The Lord thy God will hold thy hand.