I have noticed that my hands haven't heard that I'm trying not to get old too fast. I can fake youth in my behavior and my face, but my hands are giving me away.
These hands have a lot of miles on them and have been exposed to over 40 years of work and stresses.
They've been sunburned, torn, swollen, and cracked.
They've knocked on doors, manipulated home improvements, soaked in dish water, and been buried in craft goop.
They've wiped dirty bottoms, applied band aids, brushed away tears, and cut hair.
They've patted, swatted, tickled, and pounded.
They've played instruments, cooked dinner, counted to 3 (so many times), and crocheted miles of afghan stitches.
They've painted, gardened, sewed, and sorted.
They've worked on assembly lines, scanned groceries, led music, and taped (and untaped) boxes.
They've been hot, numb, pained, and blistered.
They've been raised in question and in acceptance.
They've been folded in prayer and in worry.
They've served and have accepted service.
And it shows. I think my hands are a bit like a timeline of my life. I imagine my heart might show similar aging if it could. I'm OK with that. But let's see if I can't fool people with my face for a little longer! :)
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