Late at night, I think about hands.
Hands mean a lot.
They are shaped, perfectly tailored for each individual;
Fingerprints that are unique,
No two exactly alike!
Lines stretching across a palm,
A unique fold.
Hands can tell you about a person,
About their mood, from a glance.
Softly held, resting gently on thighs: confidence.
Held together, tense, bursting: nervousness.
Pressed flat against skin, shaking: worry.
Open wide, held up, embracing life: delight.
Hands can create
(Hands can destroy)
Give a pencil to a writer, a paintbrush to an artist
(Give anyone the kerosene and the match)
You'll have a masterpiece
(Ashes are left behind).
Hands can fold clay into new shapes,
Bring down new ideas,
Hands that get away from you,
When all of a sudden you have no idea what you made,
When your planning departs and what is left
Is absolutely beautiful
(The aftermaths of horror).
My mom does not realize how beautiful her hands are.
They are wrinkled now, and lined with blue,
The knuckles are knobby;
She laughs off her "old lady hands",
But all I see is a hand model,
Like Gramma used to say she was,
Her dancing hands that heal, that create.
Only humans have hands in quite our unique way.
Dogs and cats have paws, that serve their purpose;
And gorillas and monkeys have similar hands -
But only humans have these hands.
Use your hands wisely.
God gave you unique hands.
They are a gift.