hold my hand

Lately, I've been thinking about hands. On Father's Day, as I held hands with my husband and one of our sons, I realized how different those hands felt. And I also remembered how Dad's hand felt when he held mine.

Ever since, hands have become a part of many of my days. Most of all, I have become more acutely aware of the hand on my shoulder. When I feel it, I picture Dad, or my Uncle, but I know that is only because I loved their hands.

Dad's hands were slightly calloused, warm, and always very clean. He would hold my hand often, even when I'd grown, and always there was a stronger squeeze before he let go. I learned from him the importance of that particular physical connection to another person. I'm a hugger, but I also deeply appreciate the simple helpfulness of a hand to hold.

My uncle drew a pair of folded hands. He talked about the effort he put in, the frustration he felt trying to make them look right. Soon after, in an art class, the teacher said that hands are only perfectly formed by God. Recreating them is especially difficult for any artist and takes extra effort. I remember picturing his drawing, and hearing his very similar sentiments. 

I'm comforted and comfortable with the hand on my shoulder,  the hands in my mind's eye. They are so real, so tangible. Clearly not something I've tried to create myself.

For years, as Christmas presents, we would paint the boys' hands and craft something for Mom and Dad and the boys' godparents: an angel, a Christmas tree, Rudolph. The hand prints were intended to help chronicle their growth to loved ones who didn't get to see them often enough. Hands to hold from far away.

I'm looking forward to where these hands will lead me. I'm open to the possibilities they offer. And I'm enjoying the memories they are stirring.