THE THINKING HAND

My arms are wrapped around my mama’s neck and I am shrieking. I am four, being carried down a hospital corridor toward the blood transfusion lab. This is the first memory I have of my own hands, fingers intertwined in security and defense.  

I’ve had these same hands for six decades. I don’t mean that statement to be glib, but more as sort of a proclamation of this grand miracle of existence.  I can feel my heartbeat in these fingertips, and doctors can test my oxygen levels there.  These hands also inhabit memories that science says are deeper than what the mind can remember.

Human touch is necessary to survival, speaking words of love and belonging without uttering a sound.

My hands are white. Olive, to be specific. “Oh look at how tan she is,” people would remark and I would gleam, thinking that the color of my skin was the only physical trait I shared with my tiny French brunette mother.

From the time I was nine I knew these hands were designed to write. I tried to learn to play piano but instead I would climb under our baby grand and rock myself while writing the story of my own short life, nine chapters and each word playing like musical notes in my head. In later years my mother-in-law would tell me that the pen was my most powerful weapon.

In my favorite book, “The Thinking Hand,” Juahni Pallasmaa describes the pencil as a bridge between the imagining mind and paper. Words are the manifestation of me in the world…my DNA spilling out and made visible one letter at a time. This is why I love sending handwritten cards and letters because tucked away inside each envelope is a little part of me.   

You might notice in the picture that I still pick my nails. I used to be mortified that someone would notice, but I’ve accepted this imperfection in recent years as in alignment with the “felt deeply” part of who I am. We all have our ways of dealing with what we see and what we feel. 

Notice those veins, I mean really, how could you miss them? They are a map, my onboard navigation that leads me back to my origins and the intricate blueprint of my humanity.

The blueprint of my humanity…so many moments marked and influenced by my touch—

My hands wiping tears from Quinn’s eye in his impossibly difficult season. 

My palm against my daddy’s cheek as we whisper our tender goodbyes. 

My fingers interlocked with Ron’s as we walk to the alter to share our vows.  

What we hold, what we cherish and value, is not apart from us but the essence of who we are.  

I am compelled to ask you to look at your own hands now, it can be emotional but I dare you. First the top where rings and skin tone blend together. Here, the marks of hard work and sun will do their best to tell you this is anything but beautiful. Do not believe what you hear—imperfection is beautiful.  

Now roll palms slowly over, clench and release. The “release” part of this sentence is Just. So. Important. 

Clenching your fists for too long can cut off the circulation. Even your thoughts are clearer when your hands are open wide. Emotions are best-expressed when your blood runs free.

When I’m angry, I go into the garden. I remember when Jacqueline died I went out and trimmed the roses, tiny thorns drawing blood from my hands.  I wasn’t angry then, but just so overwhelmingly sad. This mama of three boys knows that grief unresolved leads to anger—If the process of grieving is skipped, it brings on a certain rage that is sometimes difficult to contain.

I see my own self simultaneously as a warrior and builder. In certain seasons, like this one now, the former seems so justified. But these hands, the ones I didn’t choose and wouldn’t change, have become more wise with each intricate, wondrous wrinkle. They have learned that there comes a time to lay down the sword and pick up the hammer. I am a builder, after all.

These hands have seen things. They have held on tightly and let go. 

And when they fold to pray, they nearly touch the face of God. 

These are thinking hands, connected to mind and heart. 

Powerful, capable, relentless, and unstoppable—

Our hands, what are they really meant for?

Building hopes and dreams, relationships and love.