I’ve always been fascinated with people’s hands. I think holding hands is one of the most intimate things one can do. In my family, we’ve always held hands to say a blessing over a meal. I like to hold my children’s hands when we are talking about something important or praying together. So much can be learned from shaking hands with someone new.
Some of my earliest memories are of Mom’s hands. I would trace her fingers with my own during church. I can see her hands holding a spot in her Bible. She has always had the most beautiful hands. Her nails have always been neatly manicured but never polished. I don’t believe she’s ever worn polish of any kind. Her nails are thick and strong. Her fingers are long and slender. She’s always loved to wear rings, and they do look so beautiful on her hands.
My hands are the opposite. Short, stocky fingers. Ridged, thin nails. Between the years of piano practicing and digging in the garden without gloves, my hands have taken the abuse. There are callouses and damaged nail beds. Not a pretty sight at all.
I admire the ability some have to keep their hands in pristine condition. Smooth cuticles. No scratches or scrapes or dry, cracked skin. I know plenty of women who make manicures at a salon a top priority in their lives, and they have the beautiful hands to prove it.
Mom doesn’t visit a salon. She has always cared for her hands by herself, spending enough time to get the nails shaped just so. It’s only been the last couple of years that I’ve taken on being her manicurist. She doesn’t have the hand strength to cut her nails now. Her nails are so thick and strong that it takes me a couple of tries to cut them. She directs me to trim a corner here, another edge there. I’m always careful to pull the pad of her fingertip back away from her nail so I don’t accidentally snip her. She’s very particular and gives me all kinds of directions. For the next hour or so, she then painstakingly files them into perfect, smooth arcs. I’m very utilitarian when it comes to filing. Get the rough edge smooth and done! Consequently, my nails are always helter skelter. Some rounded, some squared off (the ideal shape for a piano player), others without any white tip at all.
Mom has always been so disappointed in how I care for my hands. When I was little, I bit my fingernails and cuticles so Mom would paint them with that awful stinky “no-bite” stuff. I can still conjure up the smell and taste. I’m not sure it deterred me much. She would also slather lotion and put my hands in white gloves before bedtime. She really did try to teach me the correct care for my hands.
Now as I assist with her hand care, I remember. I hold her hands in mine and think of all my scrapes she bandaged with those hands. I see her hands folded in prayer. I can still see the deft swipe of red lipstick she could apply without a mirror. I see her hands cooking and decorating and making a home for us.
The skin on Mom’s hand is almost translucent now. It’s speckled with age spots. It’s soft without any callouses or scrapes. I still love to hold Mom’s hands. Even though our relationship has shifted from her care of me to my care of her, I still reach for her hand and she reaches for mine. As we walk, we hold on to each other. She leans on her cane, but she holds my hand for balance.
My mother’s hands are still the most beautiful hands in the world to me. I cherish these days that I am able to hold them.
