My husband is the pair of strong hands that gets things done in our house. Yes, he opens stuck jars for me. He carries heavy boxes for me (especially my Christmas boxes). He even brings in the groceries when I really hint loudly.
But his hands do other strong things too. He gives a child a pull up off the ground from her latest spill. He saves another child from certain death by squishing that scary spider. He shovels snow for a neighbor, or weeds hundreds of dandelions that are polluting our lawn (or were, anyway).
His strong hands found just the right place (up a little, no down, to the right more, now harder!) to push the pain out of my back during labor for our sweet little Charity. He held me, carried my bag, drew me out of the car, brought drinks, and probably wrung his hands just a bit as he supported my choice for an unmedicated birth.
His strong hands know how to be gentle, too. They gently cradled our newborn girl as she emerged into the bright light of life. They hesitantly hand me a hungry baby late in the night, after letting me sleep just a little longer. They hold, caress, change dirty diapers, and nurture.
They brush kiddie teeth, wipe pint-sized tears, even brush little girl hair when occasion calls on him.
His hands will fasten a delicate necklace, I just can't get. And his hands will intertwine with mine and fasten my love securely in his heart.
His hands can do many things, from fly over piano keys to enliven sweet music to hold tightly to red rock as he scales a tantalizing crack in a sandstone fin, and I love the notes and love essays that his hands produce. But the best and truest strength of his hands is used each day with his family. He holds close to God, and holds us tight to him which keeps us in a warm, eternal embrace that will keep us safe forever.
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