Hands are a living narrative written by a lifetime of use. There is a story recorded in every weathered crease, a lament in every callous and an anecdote in every scar. Our hands have toiled and cared for others. They’ve admonished and loved. They’ve conveyed exasperation, underscored points of debate, wiped away tears, and applauded revelry. They’ve held on and they’ve let go.
My grandmother‘s hands fascinated me as a child. Her fingers were bent and her knuckles swelled with arthritis, but they were beautiful to me, like a sculpture. I’d watch with rapt attention while she knitted, or tatted, or perhaps darned wool socks. I wonder now at how many meals her hands prepared over her lifetime, how buttons they sewed, or how many sheets they pinned to a clothes line. How many times did they smooth her hair, shade her eyes from the sun, or pat my grandfather’s arm?
I’m still watching the story write itself on my children‘s hands. As I grow older, I think back on the feeling of their small hands in mine. Now they are grown and their hands give care to others in need, conduct scientific research, and create art that uplifts and challenges. One day, they will have children and mine will be the hands that fascinate.
I’ve recently slipped into the space next to friends and held their hands as we engaged in conversation. There is something about this gesture that makes me feel little girlish again.
Hands hold meaning. With our hands, we create objects or break them down; we communicate emotions or secret them away. So many of the expressions we use relate to hands and their contrasting purposes — nurturing versus punitive, gentle versus harsh, or helpful versus discomfiting. Lend a hand. Hands off. Open handed. Back hand. Hand out. Underhanded. Hand to hand.
Perhaps this is most lovely of all of all — hand in hand.
Gwen Tuinman 
February 25, 2014 at 8:36 am
Interesting perspective on hands. Everyone’s hand has a story behind them for sure.
February 25, 2014 at 11:17 am
I’m amazed now at my mother’s hands- gnarled with arthritis– all the knitting, cooking, baking, drying tears, etc. And of course the joy and miracle of little hands of my grandchildren- and wonder what they’ll do!
February 25, 2014 at 4:17 pm
I often think how much technology changed over the course of my grandparents’ lives. It will be interesting to hear our grandchildren’s perspective on that when we reach those golden years. They could be doing jobs necessitated by some future technology we can’t conceive of today.
October 9, 2016 at 8:23 pm
I loved the picture and the message about hands. First I thought of my grandmothers’ hands, then my mother’s and mine. I remember my paternal grandmother’s hands were always soft – no matter how many meals she had cooked that day, or how many loads of laundry, or ironing, and the list goes on. Those of us who can remember our grandmothers’ hands think of those days long ago.
My prayer is the my grandchildren will remember my hands knitting.
Thank you so much for this pause in my day. Blessings!
October 13, 2016 at 2:04 pm
Susan, what a beautiful note. I am so glad this piece evoked those lovely memories for you. Isn’t it funny how those details stay with us as we mature. I find as the years go on, they become more immediate.
June 21, 2018 at 9:44 am
My maternal grandmother would often hold my hand when we would be sitting with family and talking. Her hands were soft, her thumb gently touching my thumb and back of my hand. She’d say how soft and young my skin was yet she was only 39 years older than me. I felt so much love from her and I remember those times vividly and with yearning.
June 22, 2018 at 4:44 pm
Thank you, Carole, for this lovely and thoughtful reflection. I too remember my grandmothers with similar affection. My paternal grandmother with whom I spent the most time lived on a farm next door to my childhood home. Our strong connection to those moments just goes to show it really is the simple things and the investment of one to one time that is most meaningful.