I was in design school with only an hour for lunch. Veronica and I shared classes, and we were starving. We ran down the street to a crowded, student-filled café.
While sitting across from Veronica, I observed her. I was always in awe of her grace and elegance. Raven hair curled down to her shoulders. Perfectly fit designer clothes hugged her slim body that was also perfect. Her manicured hands were gracefully gesturing, and her posture was, of course, impeccable. If there was anyone that ever looked the part of an “Interior Designer,” it was Veronica. She was beautiful.
She looked at my hands and smiled as I was thinking about these things.
“You are an old soul,” she said as she studied my hands.
“Why do you say that?” I looked puzzled.
“Your hands look like an old woman owns them,” she stated with certainty as she casually took a bite of food.
I took my hands off the table and put them on my lap. I wanted to hide them as fast as I could.
“No, no, don’t hide them! It wasn’t meant to hurt your feelings. I was trying to say that your hands show you are an old soul with innate wisdom and knowledge. You should be proud of your hands!” she explained, still with a twinkle in her perfect eyes.
I was 21 with wispy blond hair pulled into pigtails, homemade clothes, a Tennessee accent, and old hands covered in freckles, vein tracks, and dishwater worn. I was the opposite of all she was and about the last person you would expect to be in a design school filled with designer-looking people.
Confidence wasn’t my strong suit back then. I never considered myself attractive or elegant; plus, now, I had old hands! Who cares if you have wisdom or knowledge when your hands are all anyone will see?
Years passed. One evening in my late forties, I was on my first date with a refined man I admired. My hair was no longer in pigtails, my jeans came from a department store, and I was in the middle of a career in design.
While enjoying a nice dinner, I noticed he was studying my hands. My first thought was, “I knew I should have worn those old white gloves of my mother’s!”
A smile came across his face.
“I love your hands!” he exclaimed.
Once again, they immediately hid in my lap as I surprisingly replied, “Why?”
“I see character, hard work, and history in those tiny hands,” he gently said as he reached out to hold one in his.
I didn’t date that man long, but I will always remember that moment. I never tried to hide my hands again.
I inherited these old hands from an exceptional group of folks with the same tiny, freckled friends I have. My Uncle Paul and I used to laugh that ours were so similar. He was a skilled surgeon whose small hands enabled him to perform intricate surgery long before lasers and robotic instruments were developed in the operating room.
Uncle Paul, Dad, and I inherited these hands from my Granny Rose and R. E. Walker. I always hoped my hands would not look like my Granny’s, but they do.
Rose raised her four children with those hands of hers alone. Her husband, R.E., had died before the smallest was five. And she was the only one of the bunch who could play the piano and organ efficiently, which was an anomaly.
Nowadays, my hands match my age. They are even more worn, more freckled, and sometimes I still want to find those white gloves.
I was holding my granddaughter the other day, and I thought about how many babies these hands have held. How often have I washed a bottom or a dish or waved goodbye? How many faces have I touched with love and adoration? How many times have I clasped these old hands together in prayer?
My hands have cooked thousands of meals and hammered thousands of nails. They cradled my mom the day she died and my children the first day they began to live.
We find beauty in all people in many ways. Yes, you have glamorous models on shiny magazine covers to show you what beauty is supposed to resemble. However, natural beauty is something far more valuable than what is shown in a magazine.
Beauty is in the permanent wrinkles around the mouths of people who have laughed through life and brought joy to others. Maybe it is in the stooped woman who once carried the burden of raising her family alone. Perhaps it is in the arthritic football player who once thrilled crowds.
It may be found in the miles we have walked, the tears we have shed, the joy we have shared, the burdens we have carried, and the victories we enjoyed.
Maybe beauty is in these old hands not for what they look like but for what they have done for this old soul. Perhaps it is time for me to give Mama’s old white gloves away.
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a Georgia-based author and columnist. Her work appears regularly on NowHabersham.com and through the USA Today Network. Her first book, “It’s All Write with Me! Essays from my heart,” was published in 2018. Her latest book is “Southern Comfort: Stories of Family, Friendship, Fiery Trials, and Faith.” For more of her inspirational stories, click here. You can reach Lynn at www.lynngendusa.com.
