Sixty-eight plus years these hands have been together.
These hands helped shape who I am.
My parent’s hands.
These hands have shown me how to plant a garden, shoot a bow and arrow, put worms on a fishing hook, pick strawberries, ride a bike.
I’ve learned how to make the best pie crust ever, cut out a pattern, crochet a blanket and iron. For those of you who have no clue what an iron is – it’s a big, heavy, hot metal item that you drag across your wrinkled clothing over and over again until the wrinkles become submissive.
I’ve watched these hands lay bricks, hammer nails, change tires, scrub pots and pans, peel vegetables and wipe runny noses.
The Bible has been held in these hands countless times. The prayers that have left these hands have blessed and protected not only me but my family and those to come.
I’ve seen these hands create many different hair styles with various heights and waves. I loved watching soap suds being slapped on a chiseled chin and then wiped clean with a razor.
Over the years the scars of life have changed the shape, added more character along with arthritis. They aren’t as strong as they used to be. Even though they aren’t as steady, they are treasured and valued.
We have the potential to shape and mold the future with what we do and hold in our hands. Please check your hands.
