The Beauty of Worn Hands
Have you ever heard someone speak disparagingly about the younger generation and how they don’t do things like the older generation? Maybe they don’t dress as well, prepare home-cooked meals as well, or work as hard. If you live on this planet long enough, it can be difficult not to notice differences between the way things were in years past and the way things are going at the moment. The changes can feel unsettling, as if the invisible fabric of society were unraveling like the emperor’s new clothes might do.
Having survived both the Great Depression and World War II, perhaps my grandparents looked on post-war changes in society with frustration. If they did, I never saw it. They simply carried on. They worked.
Learning that Roses Come with Thorns
My Granny is a prime example. Until her body and mind swayed under the force of disease, my Granny worked. I saw it in her later years. She picked beans. She canned tomatoes. And she had a part-time job at the local florist. During summer breaks I used to ride along in her 1970-something Impala—the whole two or three miles—to be with her while she prepped exotic flora for life’s big events. The shop seemed enormous, a place for talking quietly in smart clothes. It was split fairly evenly across with the showroom in front and the workroom in back.
The showroom had ultra-high ceilings and tall shelves replete with ready-made artificial arrangements and vases, fancy and small-town chic. The workroom was a private area I only ever saw on account of being with her. The two halves were brought together by a large, refrigerated cooler made just for the flowers.
The showroom side of it was all glass panels six or eight feet high. It was gorgeous but the best side of that unit was on the workroom side, where you could walk in and be enveloped in the scent of flowers silently waiting together. Waiting to witness a new life, a wedding, a birthday, or a life all spent and finished. Every chance I could get, I would be under Granny’s feet as she opened the heavy door to add or retrieve long-stemmed blooms. Even on the hottest summer days, the cool air inside was loaded with fragrance better than any store-bought perfume.
It was the preparation of roses for that special cooler that appalled me. One afternoon, Granny left the main workroom area—monopolized by an oversized island workstation—and carried several dozen roses to an old-fashioned sink tucked into the furthest back corner of the shop. In horror, I watched her pick up a half dozen or so of the stems that were every bit of two feet long, and strip the thorns off with her bare hands. Watching it felt tantamount to witnessing torture and I immediately protested, but she sent me to look in the showroom while she carried on, hands unscathed.
The Work of Her Hands
After that, I began to pay attention to her hands. Surely in her youth the fingers must have been more slender, less bent and knobby. By the time I knew her, the hands were large and calloused although they could turn out the lightest, fluffiest biscuits and give wonderful, soft hugs. They washed the dishes after three daily meals on china with pale flowers. They gardened until sweat poured from her face. They picked delicious figs and gently split them open to reveal the tender fruit. They prepared fresh vegetables and—on days that made my heart flutter—banana pudding piled high with meringue. They cleaned. Sometimes they rested. I learned that in bygone years they had picked a lot of cotton. No wonder she was immune to thorns.
What the Past Taught Me About the Future
Eventually, multiple health concerns caught up with her and the hands lay unused except for holding a baby doll that calmed her. Several years passed like that before she was released from that quiet suffering.
In the years I knew her, if she ever spoke to me about working hard, I don’t remember it. But her hands did as much talking as someone using sign language. My own hands have never picked cotton but they have done lots of gardening and other outdoor work. They have also canned and picked beans. How I wish they could make the same biscuits! If she were here, I hope she would be filled with joy at the work of these hands that learned from hers. The work of my hands is different from that of hers. And yet, long ago they connected as she held my hand while walking down the street.
She taught me how to work hard. And whenever I make her incredible macaroni and tomatoes, look up to see her wooden bread bowl on the top shelf, or pass by long-stemmed roses in the grocery store, I remember.
I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother…
2 Timothy 1:5a