My word for today is hands.
Let me start by saying the word chosen came about yesterday, when I was doing a puzzle from my tablet and came upon a puzzle of hands. Today at Mass, there were three children who were being baptized. There were several other children whose tiny hands kept clinging to their relative's shoulders and necks. To add to this the psalm on page 163 psalm 145 in the Catholique book of worship kept me thinking of hands. I’ve got to admit, it made it very hard for me to concentrate on the Mass.
A side note to Fathers A. and C., if you read this and tell me “This must be divine inspiration.” My answer will be, “God has a strange sense of humor.
It’s amazing how often we use our hands, for gestures, like a wave, shaking hands in greeting, or shaking a hand to conclude a deal. There are many expressions we use like, give me a hand, hand me this, cold hands warm heart.
When I was much younger my mother would always ask. “How can you get your hands so dirty? You haven’t been outside long enough to get that much dirt on them.” Luck I guess.
I still remember when at the age of 4 or 5 we lived in a house and, in the back yard was a large hole which oozed with mud after a rain fall. I would slide down into the hole making mud patties or balls. My favorite part was squishing the mud between my fingers. Strangely mixing say hamburger meat now gives me the creeps.
I’ve had so many memories of the past going through my mind over the past two days. The memories even disturbed my after lunch nap. See what I mean by God having a strange sense of humor. I’ll try not to bore you, but I must tell you some of these.
My earliest recollection is walking to church with dad. He always held my hand. His hand felt rough due to the calluses from working so many years in a foundry and later in a lumber yard. Yet he held me gently. When I got my first bike, I still see him holding onto the handle bars while I got onto it. Once seated, his other hand grasped the saddle. Both hands held the bike for the first few moments. Once I started peddling, he would remove from the handle bars, but held onto the saddle as he ran alongside. I must admit it was quite a surprise, when I realized at one point I was riding on my own, looking back to see him smiling as he stood watching me.
Dad never raised his hands in anger. I’m positive if he had slapped me with his callused hands he would have knocked me out. If I did something dumb or stupid or I would burst out in anger, he would wait till we were alone together with a soft voice that trembled and talk to me about the situation. Man, would that ever make me feel sorry. Looking back now, I think I would rather have been hit. As I grew older and was able to stay up later; I would occasionally see him laying in bed with a chaplet in hand praying before going to sleep.
Mom, on the other hand, had the fastest hand. The slap was never hard, but you knew whatever you had done or said displeased her. Speaking of mom, she would always tell us the story about when she and dad were first dating and married, how dad would squeeze her arm or leg whenever they went to a movie, instead of laughing out loud in public. She would arrive at home with bruises due to the squeezing.
By the time I started high school, I began to hear how big my hands were, not to mention my ears. I didn’t like the part about the ears, but apparently big hands indicated I would grow up to be a big man. For a kid being so small, it was a boost to my ego, that one day I would grow up to be tall and muscular.
My hands have held weapons, tools and, used in the care of patients. I have closed them in fist due to anger as well as caressed in love. They have also been used as an excuse that I’m not able to do certain tasks like learning to play an instrument or doing delicate work. I always say if I were a doctor, I would be an orthopedic surgeon, the hands are too big for brain surgery. I do, however, give good massages. When I was in Germany, each year the Canadian forces would send men for a march to a town in Holland in memory of the Canadians who had liberated the town during WW 2. One year, our colonel decided that we would have this same march on base, that included men and women to this local event. I was ordered to be in the first aid tent in case of any accidents. Most of the injuries consisted of scrapes and muscle cramping. One lady came in because she had cramps in both her legs. She sat up on a stretcher on trestles, while I knelt in front of her, gently massaging her calf at first, then a little more vigorously as I felt the muscles ease. By the time I finished massaging her other leg, she asked. “Are you married?”
I’ve been lucky, never having had any major injuries. A few safety pin stabs while putting on a baby's diaper, out of fear of stabbing the baby. This last comment is for my brothers, you guys can’t say I didn’t suffer for you.
Some of my fondest memories involve babies that I’ve held in my arms while holding a milk bottle for them to suck on and, the pat on the back for the burp. Most of all placing my finger in the palm of the baby’s hand and feeling the little fingers grasping mine. Some have even pulled my finger up to suck on it. When I look into the baby’s eyes, no matter how young, I always get what I call gushy feelings. It’s the feeling of joy, love that brings a lump in your throat and tears of happiness that well in your eyes. At the same time as I watch the eyebrows move, I always get the feeling the baby is looking up at me in judgement. As if the baby is thinking, ”Hum! I guess you’ll do.”
I could go on and on about hands, but I couldn’t say any better then the poem below that my Coccottes help me find. Pay attention to the notice at the top.
