I just enjoyed a visit with my nephew’s precious little girls, Adeline age 2 and her new baby sister. And their parents, of course! Addie charmed us with her big blue eyes and her passion for trucks. Sadie, just 3 weeks old, gazed around in wide eyed wonder at her world, safe in mom’s arms. Her tiny hands caught my attention, so delicate and perfectly formed, spread out on mommy’s shoulder. What would those hands find to do? How would her life unfold?
I couldn’t help but compare them to my hands, worn from many years of life, freckled with age spots, veins popping up. Yet I wouldn’t trade my hands for Sadie’s, not now. These hands have done so much. They have snatched toddlers from the edge of the street. They have crimped pie crusts and seasoned stews. They have stroked small foreheads for signs of fever, planted tiny tomato seeds, pounded computer keyboards for a pittance. They have clutched roller coaster bars in horror and fended off wasps. They have scoured toilets and rubbed my friend’s back as she birthed her daughter. They have wandered over the piano keys and discovered chords of pure magic.
So I don’t mind so much that they show my age. My life has left its record on these hands.
