Photo by Marilyn Nolt,
who originally submitted the poem “Hands,”
by her friend Barbara Shisler.

Hands
(For Jill at her Blessingway)

Hands are a miracle,
hold them up in awe
and praise,
joint and nerve, tendon and vein,
what they feel,
what they know,
what they can do,
what they remember.

The woman’s hands remember
first movement in her mother’s womb.
They opened to feel the air at birth,
waving and curling against the light and cold.
Tiny fists groped and pushed at a breast,
seeking a first taste, first swallow.
Pink hands danced before her face until her eyes found them,
her thumb discovered a mouth that satisfied them both.
Growing hands clutched and stroked the yellow blanket,
grabbed toys, seized her father’s finger, figured out a spoon.
Hands always clean got dirty, touched the world’s grime, resisted washing.

More growing, and hands held the jump rope, the scissors ribboned to the table,
crayons, the handles of the seesaw. Sometimes they folded in prayer,
slapped at a teasing brother, held the hands of friends at games.
When the mittens no longer fit, hands had grown into nail polish
and rings and guiding fabric at the sewing machine.
They grasped hockey sticks, a car’s stick shift, a rolling pin.
Graceful hands, strong and supple, opened
to receive diplomas and awards, closed
on the tools of living, the pencils, pens, and brushes, knives of a trade,
moving to make drawings, flexing to fashion building models.
Creativity flowed from mind and spirit through her hands.

Hands know about love,
touching a lover’s face, running fingers through his hair,
caressing a warm body, reaching out for the ring,
the feel on the finger, the feel of commitment.
Hands joined, close and warm, in promise forever.

Hands feel eager, hopeful. Hands explore.
They search her belly for the first flutter of a baby,
rest on a rising mound in blessing for the forming child.
Hands are ready, reaching for new sensation, new knowledge . . .
reaching out to be held during contractions,
reaching out to touch and hold the gift of new life,
offering her breast, bathing and dressing, massaging and patting,
hands busy with acts of nurture, deeds of joy,
protecting, leading, comforting,
as the cycle begins once again.
A little girl’s hands . . . a mother’s hands . . . a little girl’s hands . . . a mother’s. . . .

Hands are a miracle,
hold them up in awe and praise,
joint and nerve, tendon and vein,
what they feel,
what they know,
what they can do,
what they remember.

—Barbara Esch Shisler, Telford, Pennsylvania, is a poet and a retired pastor.