Hands Tell a Story

I have a specific, vivid memory of Grandma’s hands. They are still with bulging veins branching right below the wrinkled, translucent skin like worms over sand. The only jewelry, the rosary beads entwined in her fingers. The counting of the prayers is invisible. Perhaps she has recited these prayers so often that there is no need to count. Watching the “Lawrence Welk” TV show, she keeps her hands folded as if silently repeating more prayers while listening to Lynn Anderson sing. 

My Mom’s hands were the same on the surface, but never as quiet as Grandma’s. Fascinating. Now my hands look like theirs; even more fascinating. Mom talked with her hands, as I do, emphasizing important details and opinions. Her hands were sandpaper dry in the winter, and the right thumbnail was the shape of a flat bean, just like mine. 

Our hands are an extension of our invisible souls, the visible markers on the road of life. They are as unique as individual lives and reveal the complexity of ordinariness. From giving to receiving, dirty to bedazzled, folded or fisted, they are indications on our personal highway. Callused with work or smooth with pampering, much can be presumed by observing the common hand. 

I am blessed to participate in the sacrament of sharing Communion at our Catholic church. Besides the obvious Divinity of the act, much can be observed in the humanity of the hands. As receivers outstretch their hands, hearts are open to the gift. I am touched by the crooked, arthritic hands, which show decades of faithful living. It is a puzzle how a ring can fit over the bends. 

Then there are the hands that, despite being washed thoroughly, appear dirty. The wrinkles still hold the grease and dirt from hard labor. What have these humble folks done with their long work lives to leave such lasting marks? Fresh-pressed shirts and creased jeans match the underlying character. Manicured nails that sparkle with glitter often accompany a demure “Amen,” and thick, hard fingers match the gruff whisper that is a response of faith. Between the well-worn are the small, young hands that know only play, games, and school work. Despite the lack of visible reverence, proud parents keep a watchful eye on the practice. All the receiving hands carry the weight of gratitude. 

Then some hands give, showing up in many ways. Cooking and serving a meal for others is an act of giving. The offering of home-grown, hand-picked flower bouquets to show love gives the recipient a warm feeling of being special. Providing comfort in a gentle fingertip touch is soothing, calming anger, or lifting sadness when conferred with kindness. Hands reaching out in welcome and greeting bring warmth to all.  Shaking in agreement to a deal or showing pride in an achievement can speak louder than empty words. Hands pushing the swing, back and forth for hours, bring joy and laughter to both old and young.

Sometimes the hand is clenched in a fist. The story behind it can be as deep as a crashing wave, mounting in frustration and lashing out in defiance. The narrative of long oppression finally pushed into action, or the resentful bully who can think of nothing else but to strike the weaker one. The clenched hand rises in protection of love or pride, causing harm and burning bridges. Consequences not considered!

Who doesn’t love a cheering crowd expressing gratitude and praise for a song well sung or a goal scored? It’s an interesting reaction. Who did it first - clap in honor? It is, however, a universal sign of approval. Clapping and snapping to lively music unite the listener with the player in communion of love for the music.

Grandma’s hands lived 96 years. In those years, her hands worked, received, gave, and loved generously. Watching them knead the dough and stir the pot was like watching magic. She sewed her children’s clothes and washed them in a tub, wringing out the water between two rollers. Grandma planted and harvested her backyard garden every season, canning tomatoes and drying parsley. I remember the delicious, fresh carrots washed off in the backyard hose. After all this work, I think her ability to hold her hands still in calm reflection saved her energy to hug and bring a granddaughter's face close for a kiss. 

Just like hers, our hands tell a story. Whether quiet, clean, rough, or pampered, they speak to the special uniqueness of our lives. They can reflect our inner hearts and souls as we reach out in giving or receiving.

Bit by bit, that’s all she wrote…