Jotting Judi - HANDS
Today a friend suggested I write about hands. Here are a few thoughts:
I remembered being in Albania. I was the first American “lady” most of them had ever met. They grabbed my hands, turned them over and over and said, “Let, let” I learned, quite by accident, my first Albanian word; “let” means “soft.” From my pocket I retrieved sample packets of Avon hand cream, opened them and slathered them all over their dry, rough, sun damaged hands. They were sure it was magic! I left them a bountiful supply. Perhaps I was the first Avon lady in the city of Schroder.
On May 9, 2013, a tiny bundle was placed in my arms. I checked her over from top to toe. She had that incredible, fresh, newborn smell. Suddenly her hand reached out from the security of her blanket allowing her tiny fingers to curl around my finger. She held on tight. Click—went the cell phone camera; the image permanently saved. Hours later, as we drove home, I began to scroll through the many pictures we took in the hospital. I gasped as I saw the close-up of our hands. I touched the delete button, but drew my hand back. I looked again. Her tiny fingers, wrinkled from nine months in amniotic fluid, were as pink as cotton candy and as soft as the finest silk. Grace came with a manicure: each tiny nail protruding perfectly over the end of her fingers. Her perfect virgin hand in contrast to mine, oh my! Mine looked so old! It was wrinkled; wrinkled from the journey of life. I found a place to cry a bit and one more time wanted to erase it. Then, I really looked at it. I saw the beautiful ring on my finger and remembered the one who choose me and put it there. I saw the “age spots,” that reminded me of my mother and grandmother. I saw the hand that changed diapers and clothes on seven children and three times that many grandkids. I saw the hand that many times clutched another’s as together we cried out to God in prayer. I saw, and I was blessed. I thanked God for my journey.
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