I saw this poem by Liberty Hyde Bailey and it got me to thinking about the hands of friends and family. Particularly about an older farmer whose hands are gnarled from arthritis and old injuries, yet still work everyday on machinery and in the fields. My husbands hands and nails were so ingrained with grease and oil that they could never be thoroughly clean, and yet I can see them clearly cradling our babies and grandbabies. Rough skinned hands that had a sweet touch.
I know so many beautiful women whose hands bear the writing of their life stories. Children, animals and gardens raised. Church dinners and canned goods prepared. Hands that reach out to help and comfort. My own hands now seem alien to me and yet completely familiar. They are my mother’s hands. Somewhat lumpy, a bit wrinkled, some age spots, and yet capable to so many tasks.
These hands may never be in a Revlon ad, but these are hands that are proud of their work.