Hands

March 18, 2019

Greetings from where we connect,

“And that's why God needs us. Because God loves to feel things through our hands.” 
― Elizabeth Gilbert

Our hands amaze me.  I am astounded at their vast spectrum of ability.  From the most intricate, delicate work, to wielding hammers, to living out whatever our minds command.  Often noted as what separates us from other animals, our ability to use our hands to create, for good or bad, is an extension of our will, of our selves.

Our hands lead us into the world.  We reach out to one another, shake hands to show our intentions, pat a shoulder, express love.  We hold hands, fingers interlaced as if they were designed to be go together, literally connecting two people.  We fold them together to pray.  Phalanges, tendons and bones, thin muscles, tiny blue veins, the sense of touch that brings the world to us.  If you look at your hands’ place in your life it will instill awe.

Nothing prepares you for when your child rolls her hand around your finger, one of their first explorations of the new universe, maybe the first time they make claim, using their little fingers to hold our hearts. 

When our children were young, every time we were out, we would say “Hold hands, now.”  It was a frank necessity, when it was typical that the children outnumbered the parent.  Link hands, all of them, and there was this thin strand of protection, we were connected so no one would get lost or hurt. 

As they gained independence, we held hands in other ways for other reasons, but we are always linked.  Katherine, Carson, Harrison, Sawyer and Alexander.  My hands were made for many things, but among them it is to hold theirs.

Yesterday was their birthday, these boys of ours.  Their sister will host a party at her house in a few days, where we will celebrate in earnest, clapping, pointing, tasting frosting, waving our hands while we talk.  Holding hands.  My hands knew before I did that I would want to record it here this morning.

Carson’s hands express; music and literature and written ideas.  He has used them to lead, to make points as he tells a story, to turn the pages of the ideas he explores.  His hands spread peace; shakes hands with people all over the world.  He puts them to work to share his faith, his ideas, to reach for what is next.

Harrison’s hands express; experimenting with food, writing music, playing the cello, writing a script, editing a film.  He holds a pen, buttons a floral shirt, crafts complex humor.  His is a gentle touch.  His hands are curious.  He uses them to create, to share, to reach for what is next.

Sawyer’s hands express; a drive, a passion, searching for ideas, sharing his thoughts.  His hands have worked hard, lifted, pushed, led others.  His fingers strum the guitar, open the book to study, slap the hands of the men he runs with.  His hands make change, adapt, start again, risk, reach for whatever is next. 

I say to Alexander: “I know you like the back of my hand.”  His response still waits to be heard.

Alexander’s hands exist in the space between ours, the places where his fingers would lock with ours.  He didn’t hold his sister’s hand at her wedding, or push the door open on his dorm room or put the crayon to paper and create the first art.  Our son, whose fingerprints didn’t grace the window, whose hands didn’t explore beyond the day we said goodbye, holds the hands of those who wait on the other side. 

Decades ago now, I shook Bill Anderson’s hand, an artist’s grip.  I had written a poem about the boys, the four of them, and described it to Bill and asked him if he could paint what I was thinking.  He considered it during lunch and after brought me a sketch on a napkin and it was exactly what I would have drawn, if I had his gift.  A few months later he sat at my desk and we both wept at what he had made with those beautiful hands.

The painting is hanging just a few feet from me.  I look at it every morning I am in this room.  If there were a fire, I would risk my hands to go back and bring it to safety.  It reminds me of the tremendous arc of my boys’ lives, all they have become and brought to the world.  I see them, individual, but linked, to each other and to the brother who shadows them.

Yesterday we marked twenty-five years of holding their hands.  It is remarkable to see what they do now, and the potential that they have at their fingertips. We have shown them how to tie their shoes, then watched them do it until it wasn’t necessary to watch them.  My hands, then yours.  Then yours.  Then the others you will touch.

Hope this finds you with your hands fitted together,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith