My Wife's Hands

Recently my wife was very ill, so ill that she had to be hospitalized. She is recovering nicely now, but it was a scary time for both of us. As I sat with her and when I came home alone to sleep while she was hospitalized, I had a lot of time to think about what my life would be like without her. She performs so many services for me; she has great concern for my well-being and comfort, and is just always there when I need her.

My thoughts finally focused on her hands as the great symbol of her love and service to me and to our family. When I married her, her hands were soft and smooth and young and strong. They were without blemish or scar.

Over the years, her hands have remained soft and strong, but they have lost some of the bloom of youth and become more mature. There are scars; one coming from the time she put the French knife through the fat of her right hand and pinned it to the cutting board. She had no feeling in her little finger for years afterwards.

Other scars have come from surgical repair of “trigger finger,” a tightening of the tendon that does not allow free movement of the affected finger. Most of her fingers have been repaired in this way to restore functionality. The tips of her fingers have toughened up, and the skin is thicker due to the constant need to test her blood sugar with a poke from a needle to determine the right dosage for her insulin.

Yet they remain beautiful. She has her nails done regularly, always uses lotion, and washes them carefully several times a day. I love holding her hand like a school kid walking through the halls of high school. I love the way they touch me gently, caressing my face or my arm. I love the way they are often folded in prayer for me, our children, grandchildren, and those around us.

I love the way they served (and continue to serve) our children and all those around her. Our children love her dearly, at least in part because of the selfless service to them that her hands represent. In the old testament, in Isaiah 49:9-10 Isaiah says, speaking of the Savior:

For can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? … Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.

Isaiah used this imagery to remind us that Christ had graven each of us in the palms of his hands through the atonement. It was a common practice in Old Testament times to tattoo an image of the temple or something else that was sacred to the person on the palms of their hands. Mothers often tattooed the names of their children on the palms of their hands and their walls (problems and needs) were continually before them.

I can look at my wife’s hands and see the years of love and service to me, her children, and many others graven there. The poem below was originally published in the Improvement Era, May, 1955, and was called My Mother’s Hands, but with apologies to its author, Geri Materkowski, I have changed the word mother to wife.

My wife’s hands are artist's hands,
They work in patience and in faith
In their artistry genius fades;
Before their tasks strong men would quake.
They are not slim hands, my wife’s hands,
Nor white, nor petal smooth,
But, oh, the pain they've pressed away
And, oh, the fears they've soothed.
My wife’s hands are artist's hands.
You see it when they pray.
They've taken babes and moulded men [and women]
And set them in the Godly way.

Most of all, I see in her hands her love for me and the patience she has had with me to help me progress along the path toward Father-in-Heaven. Dave Barry said:

Thought for the day: Men are like fine wine. They start out as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the crap out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

I’m glad that she had the patience and perseverance to stomp me (usually gently) into something acceptable to her and the Lord – but she will tell you that I still have a ways to go. However, at least I can go out to dinner and not embarrass her (most of the time).

I believe that we are all graven in her heart, just as she is in ours. I often wonder why the Lord blessed me with such a stalwart woman, an extraordinary woman (though she would be the last person to think of herself in that way), a woman of the Lord, a woman whose hands are always turned outward, open to serve others.

I don’t mean to project perfection for my wife. We have had our differences over the years, but eventually, I have always felt her hands forgiving me for my anger and thoughtlessness. I once made her a card after a rather large fight we had. It had a quote from an old country song:

I can stand the thorns if you’re the rose.

And I can.