At forty-nine, my hands are starting to show signs of aging. Actually, they have been through quite a bit, as they have been used often over the decades.

Childhood

As a child, my hands held loads of stuffed animals. I shared my bed with my little sister and about twenty-five snugly, furry things every night. My hands have also petted numerous real animals. Mom was a stray-saver; I think we had fourteen cats—all outside of course—at one time. I’ve also had horses and dogs along the way. Yep, they have spent many hours with animals. 

My busy hands have spent hours at my Nana and Granddaddy’s. They have thrown a ball over the porch roof and prepared to catch it when my sister  would roll it back across. And on that porch, they have snapped green bean after green bean while we listened to many family tales of the olden day. They have held thousands of cards playing Old Maids, Author, Speed, and Rook. 

Teenage Years

Learning to drive was a real treat for my hands. I distinctly remember my oldest sister words. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel. And keep your eyes and TIRES on the road,” She peered briefly over the top of her newspaper. Then she pulled it upward again as if I had interrupted, and continued reading.

On my first date, my hands came in very handy! Leaving the theater, I walked straight into an oversized trash can. Yep! If it hadn’t been for my hands that I used to steady both, the trash can and I would have been rolling down the aisle!

Adulthood

In June of 1989, they carried my college diploma and my bridal boutique on two consecutive Saturdays. Over the next several years that followed, they held my two bundles of joy.

My hands had the pleasure of holding metal chains as I taught the girls to swing. They held cookie dough as I shaped their little hands into turkeys for Thanksgiving year after year. Later, they had the privilege of toting their bags filled with basketball and volleyball jerseys and gear.

More Recent Years

I have used my hands to wipe the tears from our eyes when my girls’ precious friend Amanda passed away from pancreatic cancer. They have had the blessing of holding my adult dad’s hand in the nursing home in his final days.

Over the years, they have prayed. Prayed for salvations, for peace, for mercy, for health, for patience, and for comfort.

Yes, my hands are aging , and yes, I dab a little cream on them every now and then to slow down the visible aging. However, I am beginning to settle my in my thoughts that I will enjoy my hands turning into a nana’s hands.

I want grandkids to curl their tiny fingers around my imperfect, wrinkled hands. I desire them to draw the gray-headed, Old Maid granny from my fingers and giggle with them.

Yes, I will take these aging hands and gladly help future generations learn to fold them humbly in prayer.