Hand Holding

A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" at a retirement center in Manhattan, Kansas. I took posed shots of the couples in front of a backdrop, but I also took a ton of candid shots as they danced, talked, laughed and enjoyed the evening. That was the night that I became fascinated with taking photos of hands ... baby hands, young adult hands, elderly hands. Someday, I may put all of my "hands" photos into a book ... because you see ... hands have incredible stories to tell, stories that more often than not, need no words.

Yesterday, I wheeled an elderly gentleman back to his room at the nursing home after a round of "pretend" bowling in the activity center. As I parked his wheelchair where he asked me to and started to tell him goodbye, he reached for my hand. Holding my hand in his, he patted the top of my hand with his other hand and thanked me for the "ride" home. As I gazed at the man's hands, I couldn't help but think of my dad, and as I walked to my car to leave, tears filled my eyes as I thought about my dad's hands. Rough, rugged, worn hands. Hands that bore the scars of years of hard work and physical labor. Hands that were weathered by time and tested by adversity. Daddy's hands ... what I wouldn't give to be able to snuggle my hand inside of Daddy's just one more time.

Last night, some friends joined me for a walk along with their two little girls. Not long into our walk, the two-year-old reached up and took my hand and giggled when I asked if she was going to hold my hand while we walked. As we strolled along, my mind flew back to my own three children ... holding their little hands on countless walks down through the years. As I held the tiny, soft hand of the little girl, I couldn't help but be struck by the difference in the two hands that had rested in mine that day. One that bore the years of age and the passage of time ... and one that danced with youth and innocence and the beginning of life.
 
I had a pretty sleepless night last night, and each time I woke, I was thinking about hands ... about holding the hands of others, about caring for those who are in need, about the joy that can be imparted through one person touching the life of another. The truth is that each one of us, whether just beginning life or nearing the end, needs to have someone hold our hand every now and then, to let us know that we're not alone on this journey called life, to make us feel loved and cared for and safe. And even truer still is that each one of us needs the touch of the Master's hand ... to let Him cradle us in His mighty palm, to allow Him to hold our lives in the grasp of His never-ending love.

Father, help me to hold Your hand ... to hold Your hand while You hold my heart.