Writings: Hands Strong

Thank the lord for these hands, hands that create while all else is destroyed. They save me every time when darkness falls within and without, my hands outstretched feel the way out. My God, where would I be without these hands - hands strong?

What is the worth of my thoughts without these hands to carry them out...to transform amorphous emotions into the concreteness of written language. And maybe it's true that none of it is worth an audience, but I do and will continue to commission these hands to write, write it all. To hands strong I owe my voice and salvation on paper pages.

Heavy heart, hands strong; broken inside, but busy outside...sometimes even words fail me. In heartache, strong hands carry on. They engross me in what's at hand - paintbrush, piano-keys, potato peeler - it matters not. All pain melts away and I flow to the rhythm of these hands at work.

I remember an old friend on her deathbed: with her pale skin and hair like a gray halo splayed over the pillow, she smiled weakly at me but tightened her strong hand over mine. I thought to myself, my God, hands strong until the very end.