I was hand-sewing the other day, and when I looked down at my work, my eyes immediately went to my hand. My first thought was, “Whose old hand is that? Who is that old lady that hand belongs to?” Well, of course, it was me, but it is still hard to realize that those wrinkled, thin-skinned hands are mine.

These hands held a bouquet of flowers and the hand of the man who would be the father to two of my older children. The hands that held the hopes and dreams of a lifelong companion and someone to share the joys of raising our children together.

They are the same hands that held the hand of the Great Hunter, whose hand will be the last hand I hold in love.

But wrinkles or not, I am so very blessed to have had the opportunity for my hands to get old. I can still hold a needle steadily, I can still write legibly  and if I were of a mind, I could still fire a gun accurately.

This is a blessing that wasn’t afforded to my mom. I can only imagine the fear she felt when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember the conversation distinctly when she called to tell me about her diagnosis. It came completely out of the blue. Mom didn’t share much of anything personal.

I didn’t know she had found a lump in her breast so when she called to tell me she had breast cancer. I was floored. This was back in 1984 or 85, I can’t remember which, but I do remember the first thing I said to her, because lumpectomy had become an accepted surgical option, was “They don’t have to take your breast anymore”. Her response was, and I’ll never forget it, “I don’t care, I just want to live.” She wasn’t given that blessing and she died two years later from metastatic liver cancer.

These hands also held my stepdaughter as she lay in a hospital bed after her first suicide attempt. She asked me then “Why am I here?” I told her “Because this is where God wants you to be.” She promised me after that time that she would never do that again. She was truthful. She never did “that” again, but she chose another, more lethal method.

After she passed away, I remembered she had given me a ring and told me she wanted me to have it. I’d put it away in a drawer intended at some time to make sure she took it back because it was an expensive ring.

These hands now wear the revamped ring and I remember her each time I look at the ring on my hand.

And the hand that now can wear the wedding ring my mother put on my Dad’s hand on that warm, sunny April day in 1952.

After my brother passed away, my brother-in-law gave it to me.

These hands are the hands that fold in prayer, thanking God for all the blessings he’s given me throughout my life.