Soft Hands
“The hand expresses what the heart already knows.”
She had soft hands. This is what I remember about Amy, my best friend in Kindergarten at the Christian school. It was my second go at Kindergarten. I had finished a year at the public school, but mom and dad had decided to have me start over at the Christian school. I was 6 years old when my mom broke the news. We were standing outside the Sunday School door on “move-up” Sunday, when each class changed tables and teachers for the coming school year. My mother bent down sweeping a curl from my eyes, she took my hand to get my attention.
“Dianne, you are going to stay at Mrs. Lamphire’s table.
“But I am going to 1st grade Mom, “I said confused.
“No, Honey you are going to school here, at our church, this year for Kindergarten,” she paused reluctantly, “again.”
Dejected I took my seat at the Kindergarten table with all the babies. I tried not to make eye contact with my friends who were moving up to Mrs. Smith’s class. I quickly wiped away unwanted tears as I tried not to think about being separated from my cousin Stacey, who was the only sister a girl with 3 brothers could have.
“Why?” My little heart would wonder for years. I would think, I must be really dumb to have flunked Kindergarten.
“Hello,” the little girl with the blond pigtails greeted, “My name is Amy.”
Somehow the smile from a new friend took some of my troubled thoughts away. Soon I would see her again on my first day of Kindergarten. On the playground we held hands. Her hands were small and soft, but my fingers were long and the palms of my hands were wrinkly and dry, a trait I had inherited from my mother.
“Your hands are so soft,” I said.
She stopped to study my hands. “If you wash your hands a lot they will get soft like mine,” Amy explained.
She couldn’t know for years I would try to wash the lines out of my hands to no use. Even today, when I look at my hands and see the lines, I smile at the thought of her young hearted concern for me. In second Kindergarten soft hands were important. Amy was the popular girl on the black top at recess. I longed to be her closest friend, but I had a rival. A girl with light brown hair and mint green eyes named Addy Sue. She had soft hands too.
It hurt to see them walking away together toward the swings as I stood alone. What could I do to capture Amy’s attention? How could I chase Addy Sue away? Even as a 6-year-old I had a longing to belong. To be enough.
In life, we wrestle with the thoughts in our heads. These messages about who we are and what we have to offer can create invisible walls that keep us from connecting to others. At this early time, I was already believing negative ideas.
I can’t be her best friend because I have wrinkly hands.
I must be dumb, because I flunked Kindergarten.
Such whisperings in my mind kept me from connection then, and if I am not careful, can still rob me of friendship today. I have worked through a lot of insecurities in life, and had forgotten all about my hands until recently. Somehow I frequently find my attention narrowing to the appearance of my hands. To put it boldly:
They look old.
And then I think of my Savior’s hands. Hands that have been pierced for me. Hands pierced to pay the price of my sin. Hands that have set my soul free. These are the hands I want to remember when I look at my own.
I am accepted. I belong. I am welcome.
Hands tell a story. When I was young, my hands were telling the story of inheritance. The wrinkles on my palms pointed to my mother’s genes. As a child of God, I want my hands to point to my Heavenly Father. I want the deeds of my hands to speak of His great love, and my inheritance as a child of Heaven.
With this in mind, I feel humbled by all Jesus Christ has done for me, so today, I stretch out my hands in prayer, wrinkly palms facing heaven…
Oh Lord, may these hands be used today to show your love.
“For we are God’s handiwork created in Christ Jesus to do good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.”