There is something very special to me about hands. When I first meet a person, I will quickly take notice of the shape, length and size of their hands. Some of my deepest memories and most intimate thoughts are rooted at the sight of someone's hands that I love dearly.
For instance, as a little girl, I remember my dad's hands more than any other memory. It is strange how vivid the picture is in my mind of him coming home from work at the end of a very long day and heading right to the kitchen sink to wash his hands with dish soap. His hands are tiny, calloused, beautiful, strong, dirty, stable. To see my dad's hands brings comfort to my spirit. I feel safe and secure. They have a deep meaning to me.
When I first started dating Daniel I loved holding his hand. I would softly touch his fingers, memorizing every detail. They are much larger than my dad's hands, but immediately I realized that they made me feel just as safe. They are long and skinny, yet firm and powerful. I know that when Daniel shakes your hand, you feel it, yet in that shake is also a gentleness; a meek man at the root of his fingertips. I remember thinking to myself that I couldn't wait to see him hold our babies with his hands. Even now, I will randomly say to my husband, "if there was a line-up of people's hands on a table, I could pick yours out for sure." He always says, "What is your obsession with hands?"
When Nanny was in the hospital during the last two weeks of her life, I sat and held her delicate hands in mine. I always loved Nanny's hands. They were so very womanly. Dainty and thin. She grew her natural nails to very long lengths, sometimes until they split-- and she used her thumb nail to 'pick' at the skin on her hands when she was nervous or upset, much like I do (and Nora as well). She wore her wedding ring always and that gave me a sense of belonging. Knowing that she cherished marriage always gave me hope that my own parents and even my husband and I would survive marriage someday...and hopefully as gracefully as her and Pawpy did. As she lay in her hospital bed, unable to speak, I remember the life in her hands. I purposed myself at that moment to never forget what her hands looked like. And I never will.
My children have beautiful hands. As far as Nora goes, hers are very tiny with long, beautiful, healthy nails. Her hands look much like mine, only prettier. I could stare at them all day. I know that I would recognize them anywhere. It took me much longer to figure out Braden's hands...which only feels normal seeing as to how it took me much longer to figure out Braden.;) His hands are growing so much right now. His fingers are long, big, thick and almost manly. He has lovely little hands but they aren't familiar to me quite yet. I'm not sure whose they will resemble.
Jake's hands, Grandpa Dan's hands, my father-in-law's hands, Pawpy's hands, Uncle Bill's hands.
Jeni's hands, grandma Donna's hands, my mom's hands, granny's hands, my closest friend's hands.--
I would recognize them anywhere. They bring significance and comfort to my life. On a hard day, if I see the hands of someone that I love, I revert to feeling like a little girl who is suddenly safe and secure. When the Lord spoke to me recently that our new baby boy would have the name 'Thomas,' I argued with God that it didn't have much significance and that I didn't much care for the name. However, Thomas is more significant than what I once thought, for in the Bible, Thomas was truly changed by the site of Jesus' hands. Much like myself, he saw the hands of someone he truly loved, and was suddenly reassured. He suddenly felt safe and secure.
After Thomas misses the Resurrection, he says in John 20:25-"Unless I see and feel, I will not believe." A week later, Jesus appears to Thomas and repeats his own words to him and then says in verse 27, "Put your finger here, and look at my hands." Thomas looks at the hands of Jesus and whispers, "my Lord and my God!" Just seeing those hands, Thomas will never be the same!
Maybe my obsession with hands stems from my love for the King? I cannot wait to see the beauty of His hands. How remarkable will that moment be. The hands of my Savior who took the nails for me. Nails that he didn't deserve but desired to endure. His hands have forever made me feel safe and secure. I rest in His hands alone, and until I can be with Him for eternity, I will take comfort in the hand's of those around me--reminding me that they serve great purpose. And they bring me great joy.