She stashed her Gucci bag in the overhead compartment,
switched her Dolce’s for ballerina flats, smoothed her neatly pressed trousers,
and got as comfortable as she could in her window seat. Airline seats were not
the most comfortable, but she was used to them.
Her mind wandered with pleasure to her upcoming assignment
at work. This promotion was something she had worked hard for all of her
career. She was finally getting the prestige and admiration she thought she
deserved. Not bad for not quite forty.
She thought with satisfaction of the new luxuries she would
now be able to afford, the new artwork she would be able to purchase for her
well appointed apartment, and the upcoming holidays.
She was excited for the holidays. Decorating was her passion.
She had often thought about being a designer, but she didn’t thing her talent
was good enough, and so chose business instead.
So the holidays were a time she could practice her hobby,
unpacking carefully labeled boxes containing perfectly matched glass and
crystal ornaments and systematically draping them on the perfect artificial
branches of her tree. Her tree would be so beautiful. It always was. Unvarying
and unchanging, the way it had always been. She didn’t even mind that the
perfectly wrapped gifts under the tree were all from her. At least she always
got what she wanted.
She was content with her life. She loved the prestige, the
luxuries, the ordered neatness of her life. “A place for everything and
everything in its place” her father had always counseled her. And now she had
just that.
Glancing down at her hands as she fastened her seatbelt she
noticed her new manicure. She had pushed the boundaries a little going with a
light pink. She normally preferred a standard French manicure, but this time
she had felt bold and added a tint. It actually looked good. She had nice
hands. Everyone always told her so. She put lotion on them throughout the day,
got weekly manicures, and always took care of them.
Buckling her seat belt, she couldn’t help but notice the
hands of the woman next to her. “Frumpy, Bumpy, and Lumpy” was her word for
women like that. Their glances met, and both looked away. Fortunately, there
would be no unending conversational chatter on this flight to annoy her. This was
the kind of woman she had nothing to do with.
She had always thought critically of such women and their
lack of care in their appearance; the lack of discipline. Everyone knows that
if you just eat right and exercise properly you can maintain a good physique.
Health is important after all.
But her hands! Worn, with scars; dirty, broken nails. It
really showed a lack of concern for her appearance. Oh, the woman was pretty
enough, underneath the body misshapen by too many pregnancies and too many
dollar menus. But not someone she would ever associate with.
As she settled in and the plane took off, she started to
doze. As she reached a semi-conscious state, the yearning came back. It always
did this time of year. She didn’t want to indulge it, and tried to push it away
as she usually did. But this time, with this woman next to her, it was more
difficult to shake off. This time, the yearning was persistent, fighting for
the surface, demanding to be heard.
It was the girl again. Blonde, blue eyed, with two braids.
She had those haunting, yearning eyes like she was desperate for something. Almost
like she was trapped somewhere and couldn’t find her way out.
She fought desperately to get the girl out of her mind. She
couldn’t. The last thing she wanted was a child. She thought about it on
occasion, but her work was too important. And children were messy, dirty, and
noisy. They made too many messes, too many demands on your time, and interfered
with your life goals.
She had thought of having children. She wanted things to be
different though. She had no interest in being one of those “frumpy, bumpy,
lumpy” women she saw chatting happily about sleep schedules and how to get
whatever out of clothing, what’s for dinner tonight and blah blah blah.
Endlessly chatting about nothing as their children ran wild, screaming and
giggling; laughing and chasing each other through the playground.
If she had a child, her child would be quiet. Perfectly done
hair, perfect manners. Not one of those snot nosed booger faced urchins from
the neighborhood. Hers would speak nicely, play quietly with others during
supervised play dates, learn her lessons, and be a good girl.
But enough of that. Her life was full and content as it was.
No false longings were going to ruin her holiday, let alone her carefully
planned career. She fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
She sighed. It was so good to sit down, even if it was on an
airplane. She was always nervous about flying. She had hoped either for a
pleasant chat or a pleasant nap. Either way, the few hours of peace would be
nice before returning home to her family.
She thought of her new baby granddaughter as she stowed her worn,
overstuffed bag into the overhead compartment and got ready to depart. She
fastened her seatbelt and noticed the woman next to her for the first time.
Maybe it was the sleep depravation, or maybe it was her
nervousness, but the woman looked remarkably familiar. She obviously didn’t
want to talk though, and after that one dismissive glance, the woman never
looked over again.
This wasn’t a bad thing though. Her need for a nap was
outweighing her need for adult conversation and she was happy to have a chance
to rest.
As she tried to get comfortable, she couldn’t help noticing
the perfectly matched outfit, the beautiful jewelry, and the expensive shoes on
the woman next to her. This woman obviously belonged to a gym, and regularly
used her membership. You could see the time she had to eat properly, do a daily
beauty regimen, and care for herself.
Her heart reached out with longing. Here was the embodiment
of the life she had always dreamed of. She allowed herself to indulge in
fantasies for a moment as the thought what it would be like to have a perfectly
clean apartment, have everything stay where you left it, drawers full of neatly
arranged items, closet shelves full of neatly folded towels, and baskets full
of intellectually stimulating reading material instead of shoes and toys. To
have a home where the door knobs weren’t always sticky, where there wasn’t an
endless supply of dishes and laundry and lunches and rides and errands and
cheerios always underfoot even after you just swept.
What a life. To go to work, to be needed, to be important; to
have a paycheck to prove your worth; to be able to indulge in luxuries without
the guilt of taking something from your children.
She shook her head to try and get the images out of her
mind. She fought back a tear of longing and regret. Wiping her eye, she noticed
her hands. She hadn’t looked at them in a long time, and it was obvious. With
dismay she noticed that they were starting to look like her grandmothers’
hands. Wrinkled, worn and scarred. Hers weren’t that bad yet, but they did show
years of work, too many scars, not enough lotion, and her annual mother’s day
manicure was nowhere in sight.
After lift off, she finally calmed down enough to drop into
an exhausted, well deserved sleep. As she slept, she dreamed.
She saw her hands, cuddling her first child, caressing her
brow, feeling her soft hair, and endlessly changing, dressing, and feeding. She
saw her baby’s hand wrapped tightly around her finger as she looked deeply into
those trusting, happy eyes of a content infant. There was nothing like a new
baby, so soft and warm, cuddly, lovable, and vulnerable. You would do anything
for this new person you have just barely met. And those eyes! That expression
of joy when your baby sees you for the first time in the morning and knows that
now everything is alright, the world is good, and mommy is here.
The scene changed and she was holding her daughter’s hands
and teaching her to walk, steadying her footsteps and building her confidence
in her own abilities. The tea parties, blocks, nursery rhymes and patty cakes,
and always those hands were there.
Then she saw the endless dishes, the seemingly growing piles
of laundry, the clothes neatly folded and put in drawers only to be pulled out
by an ambitious toddler who can’t decide what to wear. The vacuuming, dusting,
cleaning and scrubbing, sinks, toilets, and floors. Making beds, unmaking beds,
only to make them again. And always the hands were there.
Her daughter started kindergarten, and held her mother’s
hand tightly as they walked to school for the first time. The mother was torn.
So many separations in life, but this one just seemed more drastic. She had to
be brave for her daughter though. So she chatted endlessly and excitedly about
how much fun school was going to be, and at the same time counted the hours to
when she could pick her daughter up again.
She grew older, and the mother still served. Giving hugs,
teaching prayers, helping, serving and loving. Patting owies, placing bandaids,
pulling out splinters, and wiping away tears. And always the hands were there.
Through the school years, the hands continued. Helping with
homework, making lunches, packing backpacks, signing notes from teachers,
driving children to school, practice, and plays. Sewing costumes, sewing
badges, making food, shopping, putting away, cleaning, washing, and serving.
Always serving.
Married, her daughter now separated from her again. It
seemed so final this time. It wasn’t like kindergarten where she could come
back in a few hours to pick her up again. This time it was too real. She
quietly cried through the wedding and reception, hiding her tears and telling
the couple how happy she was. And still she served. Food, friends, drinks, and
flowers; buttoning the dress, placing the veil, adjusting the train, handing
the flowers. Her hands were always there.
And then the happy day arrived. She had a granddaughter.
Visiting her daughter and experiencing the birth of her granddaughter brought
such completeness to her life. Her daughter was not gone. It was just a new
adventure, now experienced from a distance.
Now she was cuddling her granddaughter. Touching her brow,
counting the fingers, holding a newborn hand. And she taught.
She taught her daughter to feed and to change, to caress and
to hold. She taught her daughter how to use her hands to serve, love, nurture
and teach.
And then there was more. An image of her Savior appeared in
her mind, his hands outstretched towards her. Here was her rock, her comfort,
and her guide, holding his hands out to her. She saw the prints and cried at
his hands, so perfect and yet so scarred.
His words were few, and yet profound:
“I have graven thee
upon the palms of my hands.”
And now she knew. She woke up with a start, and looked at
her hands. With joy she no longer saw dirty and broken nails; she now saw her
hands emulating those of her Savior, worn out and scarred in the service of
those she loved.
With true peace in her heart, she fell into a deep and
restful slumber.
Rachel Rehm
11/22/09
Scripture: Isaiah 49:16
