His Hands

At the risk of sounding really strange (or, potentially, perverse) – I like my husband’s hands.

He only ever says that he has small hands.

But I like the way the side of my face fits perfectly in his palm. And I think it’s amazing that his rough, weathered hands can suddenly become so soft. 

The feeling of his hands holding onto me – in a hug or in his sleep or in the grocery store as we canvass the isles – convince me that I’m both precious and safe. He thinks his hands are small, but we both know they’re strong. He will never let go of me.

And his hands create beauty in a way that amazes me even seven years after his took mine. His rugged, busted, cut, bit, calloused hands can command a pencil or a brush or a sculpting tool in ways I don’t understand, and it’s those same hands that honor our wedding band and that will mold our son and I love that.

Some evenings, as we surrender to sleep, he rolls over and lays one of his hands on my belly and prays softly for our son, and I know that those hands will never stop praying for our boy. They will be strong when ‘Niah needs them to be strong and they will be gentle when he needs them to be gentle, but they will always be open for him.

He just thinks his hands are small, but on those evenings I slide my hand under his as I whisper, “Amen,” so that he won’t withdraw it too quickly, and I lace my fingers through his and I silently pray that our son will have hands like his Father.