My Husband’s Hands
A man’s hands tell so much about him. For as long as I can remember, I said I would only marry a man whose hands were as strong as my daddy’s hands. I don’t know why that was so important to me, but it was. I found those perfect-for-me hands in my husband. And for 25 years I returned to those hands over and over again to find comfort, warmth, reassurance, pleasure, security, safety and love.
My husband’s hands were strong. Oh, how I loved those hands! Hands that opened pickle jars and closed everything so tightly that only he could open it. (I always thought he did that on purpose.) They were the only hands that could relieve the awful knots I got in my muscles and the charlie horses in my legs. His hands were strong enough to break things by accident, yet never once were they a source of pain to me.
My husband’s hands were gentle. Yes, those were the same hands the held our tiny girls, snapped tiny onesies and wiped tiny noses. The very hands that brushed away my tears and stroked my hair and rubbed my back when I was grieving, also pulled my ponytail and tickled me to make me laugh. They wrote “I love you ” on my back and outlined my lips and face. They pulled my head to his capable shoulder when I was overthinking and needed a timeout, and settled in the small of my back when I felt uncertain and needed confidence. They found their way through mounds of blankets in the middle of the night just to let me know he was there. Those loving hands that often caressed and excited me, also calmed and reassured me. My husband’s hands that lifted my chin to kiss my lips and rested on my waist in every picture, always made their way to me if I was within reach. I felt safe and loved in those hands.
My husband’s hands were servant’s hands. Those hands did many other things that I admired. They held pens and clicked keyboards as his amazing mind created captivating sermons and lessons to share with his flock. They scrubbed toilets and cleaned hair out of drains as he served those he loved. Those hands played ball with countless kids and cooked meals for many people to enjoy. They were the hands that brewed my morning coffee and set it on my bedside table each day, even though he didn’t drink coffee. Why? Because it brought a smile to my face.
My husband’s hands were humble hands. There were some things that were beyond his capabilities, but nothing was ever beneath him. Many times I found him doing things behind the scenes that no one ever knew about. And he felt no need to tell them.
My husband’s hands were faithful hands. The gold ring on his left finger was a sacred symbol to him and he took his vows very seriously. Those fingers never touched another woman nor did they find their way to be unfaithful to me in any capacity. Those hands took countless pictures of me because he thought me to be just as beautiful after 25 years as he did on the day we met. They found themselves calling or texting me before he even reached the end of the driveway most mornings, because he already missed me. They wrote me love letters and silly, precious poems. Those hands belonged only to God and to me, as did his heart.
I never knew just how much I depended on my husband’s hands until they were no longer here. No, they weren’t perfect hands. He chewed his fingernails and we had to replace his wedding band more than once from jamming his ring finger too many times. But they were perfect at keeping me warm. They were perfect at keeping me safe. They were perfect at showing me unconditional love. They were perfect at bringing me comfort and alleviating pain. They were perfect for me.
So much of who he was – encapsulated in those two hands. So much of who I am – because of that incredible man. How thankful I will always be for the years we had… but oh, how desperately I miss my husband’s hands!
A.S. 1/18/2022