I Hate My Hands

I have this friend who has these delicate, soft, smooth, perfect hands.

Not me.

My nails are seemingly always in need of a manicure. They break, they peel, and I get ugly hang nails.

My skin is scaly. My knuckles are rough. I almost always have a cut on my hands, from one thing or another.

I’ve got “workin’ hands”, and I hate how they look.

But these hands hold my wedding ring close to my heart.

These hands held a positive pregnancy test in them, 3 times.

These hands helped to deliver each of my babies.

These hands signed the contract for our first house.

These hands feed my family every day all day.

These hands wipe baby and toddler bottoms.

These hands put on band-aids and help hold my babies close when they are hurting.

These hands make lists.

These hands have freckles that match the Hubby’s hand freckles.

These hands rub the Hubby’s shoulders after an 18-hour shift.

These hands rub the Hubby’s feet after the 4th of July parade.

These hands clip coupons.

These hands lift in praise.

These hands clasp in prayer.

These hands drive the car where my family needs to go.

These hands comb hairs, brush teeth, button coats.

These hands wipe counters, toilets, and tears (not usually in that exact order).

These hands keep my connected with the outside world via Facebook, texts, and this blog.


These hands may not be pretty to look at, but what they can do is beautiful.



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