Hands

My hands have served me well throughout my years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They dried the tears of my children and caressed the love of my life.

They held bandages and dressed wounds and nursed babies of my patients. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.  Pricked by a needle sewing endless quilts for my loved-ones, burnt and scalded to feed hungry bellies. They were uneasy and clumsy when I first held my first born. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.

They wrote the letters home when I migrated to another land. Yet, they were strong and sure when I lifted up a heavy-built back to his bed. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed my body.

They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home.

I asked my son to show me some more use of the prime lens. I took pictures of my hands and have found my blip of the day. Taken with the quilt I made many years ago as the background. I am pleased with the turn-out.