Hands

Today, I looked at my hands. My hands are much more wrinkled than they were a couple of years ago. Where have these wrinkles come from? When did they appear?

The scars on my hands tell stories; the cuts remind me of pain. Where did the shake come from and when did that appear? 

Sometimes, my hands fall asleep. Sometimes, my hands are dry. Everything about my hands can paint a picture of my life, of what I have done and where I have been. 

My hands have held many children's hands, in pain and joy. My hands have held my babies. My husband and I have joined hands, connected through the years; no more need for words. My fingers have traced over my husbands, praying for him to come through this trial or another...to live another day with me. 

My hands have been held when I was in need, as the tears ran from my eyes. 

Innocence has vanished, experience replaced.

A scar from childhood reminds me to be strong. A cut from adulthood reminds me of my weakness. 

The wrinkles will keep coming, and the scars will never cease....and it is okay, every dent, scar, wrinkle and age remind me of who I am, the trials I have faced, and the lessons I have learned, the joy I have lived, and the blessings I have been given.

As I look at my hands, I may see a life that has passed before me, but what a life I see....