The finest tale I ever heard was not told me in words. I didn't hear it from any wise elder or listen to it on the news. You see, it wasn't that kind of a story; nor was it a tale devised of imagination or make-believe. There are no lips to mouth this tale, no voice to sound its plot. No ear can hear, no eye can see; this rendition authored by memory.
My fascination with "hands" started when first I saw those of my father constructing something useful from what to me was little more than scrap pieces of defunct wood. In knowing the tales "my hands" hold, I often imagine and sometimes fantasize what wonders are secured in others. Stop and think for a moment about your hands… the tools given us to reach out and embrace life. I look at mine often and in that view, if I listen hard I can hear their story.
Sincerely, in looking at my hands, I see those of my Father; the support that held me as I learned to walk. In looking deeper, memory again embraces the warmth and my heart rejoices in the many treasures acquainted to the compassionate touch of Mother. I see vividly, the medium that caught me when I stumbled and picked me up after a fall. These very hands fed, clothed, and defended me; they held the love of my life and dried the tears of my children. They are more than tools to educate and suffice, they are the medium through which I explored and conceived the magic that comes with touch. They enabled me to create, to be gentle…to work, to grow…to share, to defend, to know pleasure and to survive pain.
They served me well these hands of mine, even as I caused them to become sticky, wet, bent, dried, raw and broken. Though at times they knew mostly abuse, this day they remain my best friend…for they hold all that I am.
Only now, after decades of neglect have I awarded them my appreciation. The hands that my eyes now see and my mind learned to hear, willingly whisper a tale-often two, of how a youth found his way from yesterday to today. Each time I look, I discover in them still,another story penned in the fashion of today's passing. It is then that I find myself wishing…somehow I could relate their contents to a certain chosen few.
Today, when little else on me works very well these hands still manage to lift me off my backside, lay me down, and on occasion fold in prayer. They are the gauge of where I have been and what I have learned. They scribble in silence the quiet memories of my life and repute the ruggedness. Their usefulness is less apparent these days and I pray they will have the strength, when the time comes for them to perform the ultimate task: to reach out and take the hand of the Almighty when He calls me.
