HANDS - Silent words

The first hands in my life were those of Dr. Fréco. He delivered me in my parents home. He was our family physician and made many house calls during my childhood. My grandmaman had a terrible time with something in her back. For years she went from one doctor to another, with never more than a temporary relief. Until one summer, while vacationing at our house, she had another bad spell. Dr. Fréco had planned a home visit to check on me and the mumps. The touch of his hands was soothing. He straightened her back and the pain was gone for good! She told the story until the end of her life.

My mother's little sister "Tati", painted on porcelain. Entire dinner sets and tea sets were adorn with delicate blossoms. Scenery depicting days gone by and architectural beauties were applied in monochromatic tones on plates. Bouquets and flowering branches decorated vases, chargers, unusual glass bottles. She painted ravishing roses on canvas and silk. Stock cards and paper place mats could turn out a masterpiece if it fancied her to draw and nothing else was readily available. She had a knack for crafting with velvet, brocade and gold leafing. Her home was furnished with antiques from all over Europe. She owned a boutique filled with clothing bought from collections viewed in Paris, Rome, Munich, Vienna. She was beautiful and her surroundings reflected her love for art. She was an artiste, and painted until she no longer could.

My grandpapa had the largest hands I have ever seen. He had the frame of a tall man, but his growth was stunted after a childhood fall down a staircase. He developed a hump in his left upper back, more noticeable as the years went by. His shirts and suits always needed tailoring to shorten the sleeves. That's probably why his hands appeared even larger. He could work on the most delicate projects. He repaired our watches, clocks, miniature doll house furniture, transistor radios and of course any electrical or mechanical device. In his old days, his eyesight failed him. But I remember watching him eat peas with a fork, blueberries with a small dessert spoon. The silverware looked out of proportion, but he used it with deftness. At my wedding, he played a tune on the cups, glasses and plates. It was a riot.

My cousin Marianne, took classic guitar lessons. I was fascinated by her long slender fingers and her olive complexion. She took after our great-great-great grandmother, from Ottoman descent. She was my best friend and confident for many years.
I admired her, specially her gracefulness. She studied to be a special education teacher - and became an outstanding one. Her hands were like butterflies.

My favorite man in the world was my Uncl' Alphonse, one of my father's brothers, my godfather. His hands were rugged as farmers hands are, but with a gentleness about them in the way he tended the young shoots in the vineyard, the livestock in the barn and "Pierrot " his horse. He cared for kittens and dogs, the fruit of the earth and handled everything with respect.

My mother had the most tender hands, quite large for a women, but as light as a feather. She made heavenly pie crusts and pastries, weightless meringues and anise cookies, superb cakes with frothy mocha frosting. She canned, made preserves, jams and jellies, dried herbs bouquets for winter comfort cooking. She knitted without patterns, everything from hats to gloves, dresses, pullovers and knee high socks with intricate designs. Her fingers swiftly working a thin cotton thread with a crochet hook, she produced laces for table runners and handkerchiefs, doilies for framing and all sorts of elaborate gifts for friends and family. There was also embroidery and needle point. Even folding and ironing clothes looked like a work of love for every crease was precise. She played the violin. And she sewed... just for the asking.
At home, except when she read a book before bed, my mother's hands were never idle. More often than not, she was busy for someone else's enjoyment. She was a giver, gentle in all her ways.

My granddaughter Naomi, "Mimi", has little baby hands (even though she is growing fast). The other day, she caressed my shoulder and my arm in the most loving way. It was as a whisper of love, and her eyes were speaking from her heart. Is this how the brush of angel's wings feels?

These hands have spoken to me and enriched my life.

Today, I know Jesus. My hands belong to Him.

We are His hands on earth. Reach out and touch someone. Share Him.

... the Savior's hands. My life is in His hands.