Tuesdays Unwrapped

The Tuesday after Thanksgiving seemed like a good day to join in with Emily at Chatting at the Sky (Thank you, Caroline Starr Rose, for introducing me to her lovely blog!) with a post themed “Tuesdays Unwrapped.”

Here’s what Emily has to say about the reason for these posts:

“Celebrating the small things does not come natural to me. Most of the time, I am in survival mode, thankful to make it to bedtime. That is why I so love this project.

For these moments, in this place, I slow down. If only for a few minutes, we have permission to take the time to unwrap the small, secret gift of the everyday. I’ve set aside Tuesdays to share a moment that may have otherwise disappeared under the pile of daily tasks. Instead, stop. Notice. And be thankful.”

When I stopped to consider what to write about today, ideas poured into my head. Whatever my other (many) failings, I find gratitude very easy; 95% of my prayers begin, “Thank you, God...” But in the jumble of big and small things I have to celebrate today, one image jumped out at me:

These hands.

Eight years ago, when Mark and I were preparing for our marriage, we attended a wonderful weekend called “Engaged Encounter.” It was required by our church, and we went a little skeptically, expecting something a little, well, cheesy. To our surprise, it was more like a boot camp in intense closeness. Prompted by the words of the couple who “ran” the retreat, we talked and wrote for hours and hours, getting to know each other--and love each other--better than we ever had. At the end of the weekend, all the couples sat or knelt praying in the little chapel, and the retreat leader asked the women to take their fiance’s hands and really look at them.

Again, my “sappiness alarm” bells started ringing, but I’m a rule-follower for the most part, so I complied. “Look at these hands,” he said. “These are the hands that will hold onto yours all through your life. These hands will cradle your face just to get a better look at you. Someday they will cradle your babies. They’ll work hard for you every day. They’ll wash dishes for you. They’ll hold your child’s handlebars when he learns to ride a bike and they’ll clean off the scraped knees when he falls. They’ll rub your shoulders when you’ve had a bad day. They’ll lead you in a dance when you’ve had a good one...”

I couldn’t help myself. I started bawling my eyes out, but I didn’t feel too badly about it, because there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. By the time we’d finished the reflection on the women’s hands, you could hear the hiccup-sobs of that one guy who had come in looking completely “macho.”

Eight years later, I still get choked up whenever I stop and really look at my husband’s hands.
Because they have done all those things. They’ve done so much this month since Madeleine’s birth: they’ve cooked at least half the meals we’ve eaten; they’ve rocked a fussy baby so I could sleep or shower or write; they’ve gained a few scrapes and scars tearing out a damaged floor and nailing in a new one so we’d be warm and secure; they’ve typed and painted and carved to fill our life with beautiful things (occasionally while rocking a baby); they’ve held my face and made me feel beautiful myself, when all I could think about was a sagging postpartum belly and stretch marks.

And they’ve never asked for thanks for any of it, which is why I’m risking setting off the sappiness alarms of the entire blogosphere to say this:

Thank you, Mark. You are the best gift ever. I love you.

And the rest of you, tune in later this week when we return to our usual only semi-sappy programming... :)