At one point, they were held by a young man’s hand, and that touch excited yet frightened me. As a young bride, my hand proudly displayed my engagement and wedding rings. They caressed my dear husband and still did until he left this earth for a better place. They unpacked my fine China carefully when we moved. They ironed clothes, washed dishes, scrubbed and waxed floors, washed windows, polished furniture and smoothed out wrinkles as they folded clothes or made the beds.

When our first child was born, they tenderly nurtured and caressed her. They wiped pabulum from sticky fingers, ears and hair. They cleaned, wiped and powdered behinds as mountains of dirty diapers were changed. They tenderly applied band aids and kisses to booboos. They gently slapped roving fingers and bottoms to warn toddlers. They colored with crayons, kneaded and shaped clay and poured and sifted sand with my youngsters. They patted heads, mended skinned knees and picked burrs out of clothing. They untangled snarled hair and scrubbed bare feet clean. They prepared more meals than I can count; they plucked chickens and mashed potatoes.

They filled Easter baskets and Christmas stockings. They have wrapped gifts for others and unwrapped macaroni decoupage from first graders.

They have soothed fevered brows and held tiny heads as they spewed vomit across the bed. They became chapped from hanging wet clothes on a line on cold spring days. They wiped away tears, clapped with gladness and waved with joy. They have sewn, crocheted, embroidered, knitted, macraméd and weaved. They have been idle, though not much. They have gripped a steering wheel with white knuckles when driving through a blizzard. They have scraped and chipped ice from a frozen windshield. They have stoked the stove with splintery wood. They have wrung out poopy diapers and picked beautiful bouquets. They have been dirty and grimy from digging a new flowerbed or planting vegetables. They have mixed cement and mortar. They have picked and poked and prodded when necessary. They have scrubbed toilets and clasped the hands of those whom I respect.

These are the hands that my husband held so tenderly as I lay near death — not once or even twice, but more. These are the hands that picked and held close to my heart, the little soapstone box that held the brooch worn by my grandmother who died before my birth. I clutched it to my chest as I walked dazedly through the rubble of what earlier that morning had been our home.

These are the hands that stroked my husband’s aunt’s delicate skin as she lay dying and took her final breath. These are the hands that applied the lotions, balms and salves to wounds and burns on my children and husband; the same hands that first held my newborn grandchild. They are the same hands which calmly soothed my child during a storm or over the heartbreak of a first love gone forever. These are the hands that I wrung in despair as I worried over loved ones out during a blizzard; the same hands who lovingly caressed my son’s cold, cold face as he lay in his casket.

They have decorated scrumptious cakes and written fancy calligraphy. They have thrown horseshoes and bowling balls, softballs and footballs. They have cut and curled hair, groomed and brushed dogs, filed papers, written checks, counted quarters and pinched pennies.

Fingernails have finally been allowed to grow and they have been shaped and polished, and sometimes broken much to my chagrin. They have held and fed abandoned kittens with an eye dropper and repaired broken toys. These are the hands that have been scratched and scuffed with rose thorns, stained green from pulling grass and weeds, dirty fingernails from planting and reaping.

While it is true they sometimes ache and are stiff, they continue to serve me, my family and others very well. They have been taken for granted but how grateful I am for them.

Many of my tasks are different now — they count out the myriad of pills, rub my aching joints, slather moisture on my parched skin and inject my insulin all while moving more slowly.

These hands have seen triumphs and tragedies, and yet they continue to serve me well. Many years ago, I prayed and asked the Lord to bless me with the use of my eyes and my hands until the day I die. So far, He has heard and answered that prayer. Yes, they are now becoming worn, with age spots and enlarged joints from decades of use and abuse, but they are my hands and they are a most precious gift from above. Thank You for the unique design and the wonderful gift of these hands.