A few months ago, I was en route to an island birthday vacation with my sister. We took a redeye flight to arrive and be settled before dark – one of several things I try to do since I am now officially in the last part of my life. This was a milestone birthday, the big 70. I’m not ashamed to say my age, although others encourage me to not be so quick to divulge that number. So many close to me (my dad, cousins Tim and Rita and too many more to mention, best friends Cheryl and Cathy to name a few) did not make it to 70, so I aim to be grateful for each and every day as I wonder, “Why am I still here?” (Sounds like Mother, and I digress.)
Back to the flight – it seemed surreal that I really was turning 70. For the first time in a few years, I had actually polished my nails for the trip – a bold shade of strawberry. I pointed out to sister that in the midst of weight gain, hair graying and thinning, and those eyelids still creeping down, for some unknown reason, my nails were growing just like I was 30 something. Until menopause, I had always been able to grow long nails which made my slim fingers look even longer. Grandpa used to say I would be a great piano player because of my long fingers. (Well, that didn’t quite work out and neither are my fingers slim any longer; and I digress again.)
Like the hands of Mother, Daddy, and both sets of grandparents, these have lived their life. They’ve cared for and touched three sons and finally two grandsons. I hope the boys remember the things these hands did well and forgave the times they missed. They have cooked many meals, changed diapers, folded clothes, rubbed backs, applied bandages, steered the wheel, and caught many balls. When they fell short, a good washing and tad of lotion and they had a fresh start the next morning. I hope these hands served them well, all of the boys.
These hands have given to others – friends and employers. Perhaps some remember. When these hands did not give well, I hope that another set of hands came along and made up for my shortcomings.
These hands have worshiped God and my savior Jesus Christ, and these hands have also failed. I’m thankful that as far as the east is from the west, my sins are removed from me. (Psalm 103)
As the plane landed and we made the half hour drive to the island, I thanked God for the years; and hoped there was still some goodness left for these hands to do.
I thought of something my cousin’s husband said at my last-living uncle’s funeral a couple of years ago. He was 95. I think on this whenever I wonder why I am still here.
You have a purpose until you don’t.
So for now, these hands will occupy until He comes or until He calls me home. (Luke 19)
That is so beautiful. And so absolutely true. My daughter, Jill, gifted me with a picture of my precious Dad’s hands after he passed. I treasure it. On my Mom’s final days, there is a picture of my beloved granddaugher, Amelie, and I kneeling…holding her soft, warm hand. She had rhematoid arthtitis and her hands were not pretty in her eyes, but they were to us.
Hands do tell a precious story.
Your story is lovely.
Thank you.
I appreciate your kind comment, Debbie. Thanks for taking the time and reading a story from my heart.