I LOOK
AT THIS HAND
I
look at this hand,
so
scarred and arthritic,
‘twas
not always so.
Once,
young and strong,
nimble
and fluid,
flying
across the piano
keyboard,
a fluidity of
motion,
scales and
arpeggios,
attacking the
keys
with dynamic
vengeance,
and, just as quickly,
tenderly
coaxing beautiful
melodies
whose sound
floated
gently through
the
air. With a graceful
arc
this hand directed
choirs
and ensembles,
finger
and flat picked
banjos
and guitars,
on
rattling percussion
beat
paraddidles and
radamacues,
bowed
violins
and violas, played
brass
and woodwinds.
Yes,
once this hand
was
young and strong,
nimble
and fluid.
I
look at this hand
so
scarred and arthritic,
‘twas
not always so.
Once,
this hand eagerly
sought
to touch yours,
and
having done so never
has
wanted to let go,
except
when it held
the
pen that composed
so
many love letters
to
you, confiding to
your
care my deepest
feelings
and thoughts,
or I
would close my eyes
and
ever so gently
let
my hand travel
over
your hair, your face,
your
body, revealing
to
my mind’s eye every
contour
and shape
of
your body, the
softness
and warmth
of
your skin, the fluttering
of
your eyelids, the silken
texture
of your hair, the
shape
of your lips. Oh,
yes,
once this hand
eagerly
sought and
longed
to win your hand.
I
look at this hand
so
scarred and arthritic,
‘twas
not always so.
This
hand has held
our
infant children,
powdered
and diapered,
carried
and burped them,
cleaned
them and dressed
them,
hugged them, and
blessed
them, and on
rare
occasions swatted
their
behinds. Fevered
brows,
removal of splinters,
drying
of tears, throwing
snowballs,
soft balls,
hard
balls, taking pictures,
and
wrapping presents, yes,
this
hand was once young
and served with love
our children.
I
look at this hand
so
scarred and arthritic,
‘twas
not always so.
This
hand once knew
the
shape of tools,
built
and sheetrocked
walls,
laid floors, made
repairs,
installed electrical
lines
and outlets, cursed
plumbing,
constructed
rudimentary
furniture,
beds
and tables, dug holes
and
built decks. Yes, this
hand
that once held tools
that shaped our home,
never raised in violence,
holding a gun or weapons
to destroy life, but always
to create. Yes, this hand
has
been used to create
and to shape our home.
I look at this hand
so scarred and arthritic,
‘twas not always so.
I placed this hand in
yours as I pledged to
you my life. I placed
this hand in those of
the bishop as I promised
to him my obedience,
a life of prayer and
to place this hand
in the hands of those,
these past twenty years,
I have been so honored
to serve. Though
stripped of ligaments,
and robbed of use
by a car accident long
ago, yet this loss has
been softened by how
this hand has served
and loved you, served
and loved our children,
served and loved those
God has placed in
my life. This hand has
given to me so many
blessings in life, that
all I have is thanks
for the good it has done,
all scarred and arthritic,
and lying in the
palm of your hand.
©
2015, The Book Of Ruth, Deacon Bob Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.
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