Our Hands

While waiting in the enormous Dallas Fort Worth airport recently, I snapped this photo of an amazing jumble of hands sculpture.* Each set is distinctive in its coloring and position, telling a story of individualism, yet unity. It was a beautiful visual reminder to me of the purpose of our hands.

What are they for? What purpose can they possibly have as their wrinkles and bony structures become more visible year after year. They are tired. They are worn by the opening and closing of doors, closets (real and imaginary), and medicine bottles for a family member whose medical reality rested in those orange cylinders.

When I can’t see the reason in the mornings for my heart to rejoice, I look down at these hands writing through the memories, and I remember. I remember the good these hands have done. I smile remembering the 44 years I’ve held Chris’ hand tightly through motionless fear and exuberant joy. I recall the spontaneous happiness these hands felt holding each of our first four children immediately following their first breaths, and welcoming our last child, Robert, into my anxious hands after he found his own special breathing rhythm. And my hands can’t possibly wrap themselves tightly enough around our grandson each time I see his little face.

I know these hands are strong because they have clapped ferociously for every accomplishment our children have made and clapped back each time I needed to set someone straight. These hands have positioned themselves reverently through years of sacred prayers, and they have wiped away far too many tears of sorrow. And even today as I write this to you, tears are collecting in my jar of gratitude.

My hands have touched a few pianos in support of my students, always knowing they would touch my life more than just through the ebony and ivory keys as they sang. My fingertips have placed tissues in the hands of singers young and old as I’ve watched and listened to a hurting soul share its trauma. These hands have held tightly to another’s hands in moments of sorrow because they had been trained to do so by others who had done the same for me.

These ten extensions of my being have also gently lifted a few broken hearts. They have felt the tender embrace of a friend and the brutal rejection of yet another. My hands know what it means to hold someone’s story and carry it without judgement. However, these hands also know all too well when they have failed to offer grace, and an imaginary slap across the face was deserved.

How should we use our hands? Why do these 10 oddly shaped digits on our bodies hold such significance? How do they sense when to caress someone in need and, sometimes, find hope in forming a fist to stand up for justice?

While waiting in the enormous Dallas Fort Worth airport recently, I snapped this photo of an amazing jumble of hands sculpture.* Each set is distinctive in its coloring and position, telling a story of individualism, yet unity. -It was a beautiful visual reminder to me of the purpose of our hands.

If we so choose, we have the privilege to join our hands with others’, keeping our identity, but forming an unbreakable force and ability to create change. We can choose to do good work, or we can choose to do the opposite. This jumble of hands and crowding in our lives is powerful when put to good use. I want the heavens opening a “magic lane” kind of moments. Those moments rarely come without repositioning and clasping tightly together in prayer, but it is possible that God gave us these hands to do something! Not just anything, but something that demands unity and cooperation, for the good.

I want all of those moments, even in the rain, and even in the grief. I crave the moments I imagine in this sculpture - all different colors, shapes and positions - together, doing good work.

What do you want to do with your hands for the one life you’ve been given? What are your hands doing?

“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might; ….” (Ecclesiastes 9:10)

Take my hand in yours, and let’s get to work. Let God find us doing His good work on every morning we see the sun.

* The hands sculpture at DFW Airport refers to the Adrian E. Flatt, M.D., Hand Collection, a collection of bronze casts of famous and significant hands. This collection, curated by orthopedic surgeon Dr. Adrian Flatt, includes casts of hands belonging to individuals like Walt Disney, Dwight Eisenhower, and Mickey Mantle. It also features hands from astronauts, composers, and others, totaling over 100 pairs.

Listening Library: "Over The Rainbow” (Ella Fitzgerald)

https://youtu.be/hc2rTt74Qys?si=m97XJFV8A8JfTjE4

Over The Rainbow

When all the world is a hopeless jumble

And the raindrops tumble all around

Heaven opens a magic lane

When all the clouds darken up the skyway

There's a rainbow highway to be found

Leading from your window pane

To a place behind the sun

Just a step beyond the rain

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me

Where troubles melt like lemon drop

sAway above the chimney tops

That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow, why, then oh why can't I?

Songwriters: Harold Arlen / E. Y. Harburg

Over the Rainbow lyrics © EMI Feist Catalog Inc., CRC Jianian Publishing,

Rough Trade Songs, You Hate Me Music, Compositions Of Rough Trade Publishing