Hands

Something happens to you when you are present for a loved one's death. It's unexplainable.

I was holding both my parent's hands during their final moments on earth. In death, both of their hands were nothing like what they were in life.

My dad's hands at his death were weak, bony, and fragile. Words I would never have used to describe my father. Strong and kind, his hands were warn and calloused from work. Big and comforting, I remember holding them and counting the freckles, all the while feeling safe knowing those hands loved me and took care of me.

My mom's hands at death were bloated and fleshy; nothing like her delicate hands in life. She had gorgeous hands that were masters of the piano, organ, and cello. They were sinuous and strong, yet always soft and gentle. She used those hands to raise ten children with equal parts strength and sweet. I loved my mom's hands and often wished mine were exactly the same.

I now hold my children's hands and wonder if they memorize my hands the way I memorized my parents. I hope they find comfort in my hands. I hope they feel safe when holding their Father's hands. I hope the years of tickles, diaper changes, bum pinches, cooking lessons, cartwheel lessons, owie kissing, hair playing, scripture reading, foot massaging, school homework, dance/piano/soccer, never-ending sacrament meetings, clean blitzing, and praying, show my kids the love my flawed hands have for them.

I have memorized my Savior's hands, marked and scarred for me. Through my trials I have become closely acquainted with my Savior and his unending atonement. He's turned any feelings of resentment and pain, to peace and gratitude that I am so blessed.

I can't wait for that final day when the Savior will hopefully look at my hands, worn and calloused, and tell me, "Well done. Way to use them up."