Everyday Life: Hands

His hands are warm, and I don't expect it.

Not amid the cold of a chilly November day. 

Not within the four walls of this pale room. 

His hands, they are warm, and his grip, it is still strong despite the frailty of the rest of his body. 

They betray his poor prognosis and leave me hopeful that his strong will and determination will carry him through, leave him steady and standing, walking tall until the end. 

These hands

they say something different than does the gauntness of his face

the whimpers of his lips

the doctors' reports.

At first I can't find my voice to tell him what I intended

that he is loved

and that he is Loved. 

That I appreciate him

and those strong hands that 

fought for our country

built a business

bound together a marriage 

a marriage that made a family

a family that grew my father

a father who helped grow me. 

The words -- when the room empties of family and falls silent and still washes over the bed and his body quiets into a sounder sleep -- they come crashing out of my mouth, loud as they do when I'm talking over the  building and echoing voices of my boys. 

He responds not in words 

but in firm squeezes 

his hand to mine 

in a language he's been speaking for I suppose his entire life

one I'm just now beginning to understand. 

Just Write: Pictures

John was clearing out the garage this weekend, and he set aside a box from my mother's basement that was loaded with old pictures.

The minimalist in me wanted to toss them into the the recycling bin, but I couldn't stop looking at the faces that had once been so important in my life

the wrinkled hands laced together, anchoring my small body on their laps

the smiling eyes locked onto all of the great-grand babies spread out across the couch

their full hearts apparent and full across their lips as little arms wrapped themselves around their necks.

I called my grandmother this morning to chat and to ask if she and my grandpa would come visit Friday and spend the day with the boys while John and I tended to the many things calling our names.

My kids cheered and hollered, a surge of joy and exclamation at the thought of grandma and papa coming for the day.

And I wonder if they'll look at pictures one day when they are grown and linger for just a few minutes whispering gratitude

that mere pictures can bring them to a dead halt

when they're clearing out the garage

take their hearts captive with memories

for days after.

And I hope they'll know that they've become the people they've grown to be

in part

because of those hands

those hearts

those eyes

who long held them beyond the carrying years.

Bigger Picture Moments: Golden

When I was younger my grandma shared with me that it wasn't easy being the oldest generation.

Because, she'd said, who do you call when you need a little wisdom, a little more life experience than what's spread out across your own table?

Honestly, I didn't know what to think of that then, but now I'm starting to understand what I'm sure is just bits and pieces of what she meant.

Photo courtesy of my sister, Jill. 

I understand it slightly more every time I watch my little boys all but fling their bodies into still-strong arms that held their own babies and their babies' babies and now the babies of those babies.

It becomes clearer to me now on those days I pick up the phone to dial my mom or grandma or mother in law and upon hearing their inviting greeting I sloppily wring out the dirty water of a messy day's events only for them to offer soft, dry towels of compassion and perspective.

I get it more and more as I watch my father in law pour into his grandsons in only the way a grandfather can, my husband standing close by, almost taking mental notes on how to father from the man who helped raise him into the good man he's become.

It surfaces when I catch the gaze of eyes that have seen so much linger long on our two giggling boys, as if they were the most interesting, lovely sights ever to be seen.

Photo courtesy of Erica Lynn Photography

These generations, they weave together

tightly tangled and connected.

And each year I celebrate another birthday

I seem to take another step back from the brightest, most intricate of tapestries,

breathe in the bigger-picture design of family

and realize that these days of being sandwiched in the middle of it all are absolutely golden.

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