My Dad has strong hands. He can fix just about anything, creates wo0den masterpieces, and is rebuilding a car. He can also support my whole body weight in one hand, just by holding mine, when I walk with no walker. My Mom has strong hands. She uses her hands to meet the needs of others in elegant penmanship, is a role model hostess and can create crafts out of scraps. She also helps with my needs, even in the worst of my humiliation. My sisters and brother-in-laws have strong hands. In each of their personalities and jobs, they show the gifts they have been given through what they do. My family has strong hands. And mine–weak.
“If it doesn’t snow soon, I can no longer blame the weather for my hands’ poor performance,” I told Mom a few weeks ago. Like those who suffer from Arthritis, my joints will feel extra stiff, achy and swell in step with the weather; but there is more and I know it. I have felt the change over the past month or so, and have seen the effects of weakening hands. There is really not a way to describe my hands…I haven’t even found a description satisfactory to relate how numbness feels. My hands give me a daily psychology game–especially when I grip something for balance or pick up something, only to realize that I thought I had held of the object, but it never left its spot. My hands frustrate me. They make me slow. In a world of haste, this can be a defeat in self-esteem.
One may associate pride with strength, the strong hands. I would say likewise for the weak, because I live there. Weakness has a pride. Every time I deny that I can’t do it on my own and try to prove my hands out of uselessness, I have pride. In pride I forget that it is when you are weak, then you are strong. And so I continue to learn to see my blessings–my hands in weakness–even when I can’t feel them.