I am currently in a writing class and I am really enjoying it. I thought I would share some of the things I have written lately. In this first essay we were instructed to write about something that most people do not see as beautiful, an overlooked beauty.
Old
Hands
I
saw his twisted and scarred hand open, reach out, and take hers in its grasp. Her
hand was wrinkled with blue, bulging veins.
They are old hands, but they are hands filled with love, with strength
and with life. The years of these hands flashed before me like faded photographs
in a leather bound album.
It’s the First date. The photograph
shows saddle shoes and a poodle skirt, wingtips and a bow tie. He is holding the door, and she the
popcorn. Their hands brush as she passes
by, and they smile. The next picture is near an altar. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands,
now enfolded, show the glint of gold and the commitment they have made to God
and to each other.
Turning the page, the biggest
picture is the first night home with their new child. They are seated side by side, their hands
interlaced under their precious bundle, their eyes unable to look away from the
heavenly gift they are holding. She
softly rubs her newborn’s skin while his fingers tremble under the weight of
new responsibility. A smaller photo on
the same page is the two of them walking away from the camera together, their
hands comfortably bound between them. In
his left hand he carries a bucket overflowing with potatoes, carrots and
onions. She balances, in her right, a
wicker basket of freshly folded, sun and wind dried laundry on her hip.
I
flip a few pages and stop to catch my breath.
They are at the bedside, close together, their hands hold the word of
God: grasping scriptures, turning the pages, seeking truth, and searching for
answers. The intimacy between them in this moment of prayer clutches my heart
and brings tears to my eyes. Those hands hold tight to each other, giving comfort
and strength as they pour out their souls to the Lord. There is no need to hear the words; the image
is felt more than seen.
Again they appear beside each
other, hands clasped between them. They
use the other to wave at the back of a college bound car. There are tears, but they
quickly change to laughter. They stand
for a while, their heads tilted towards one another contemplating the life they
lived with their family. There is
satisfaction, contentment and pride in a job well done. This life is not over, just changed. They marvel at the future, of grandchildren,
of spreading the gospel, and of being together.
The book closes and I am brought
again to the present. As he leads her forward, he squeezes her hand gently, and
she smiles. Their hands are grateful,
loving, and proud as they walk together to the front of the room and claim the
sweet intimacy in knowing, sharing and living a life together.
A
tap on my shoulder pulls my sight away from the aged hands. A younger hand with familiar scars and
callouses reaches out to me. I place my
hand in his, and as we walk together I pray to receive the blessing of sharing
old hands.
This next essay was a love letter written to an object.
Dearest
Baldwin,
I didn’t know what I was missing
until you came into my life. Emotions,
thoughts and creativity were bubbling under the surface of my existence with no
outlet for expression. You were given to me as a gift from wise parents who
understood my need to develop a relationship with you. Do you feel objectified by that? I hope not.
You are an important part of my life. I want you to know that I have never
taken you for granted. I am aware of the
significant role you play for me in my mental, emotional and spiritual life. Thank
you for allowing me freedom to explore their gift without judgment.
We have spent many hours together you
and I. Every one of those moments has
been a joy. If I had a year for each of
your 88 keys, it would not be long enough. I love the coolness of your ivory keys and the
smell of polish in your gleaming wood panels.
I love the shininess of your damper pedal where I rest my foot and feel
the reverberations of sound as we work together to make music. You are as
familiar to me as my own hands. The
spaces between your keys match the size of my hands perfectly. How did you do that? You have always been a comfortable fit even
as my body has grown and yours has stayed the same.
Although I enjoy making music with you,
the time we are together is more than mere entertainment. Remember all those times when I needed to
escape from the world? You were
there. You have always been there. I
know I have not always been kind to you.
I have often been harsh as I have worked out my frustrations upon
you. You never seem bothered by
this. You just allowed me to be
physical, harsh and cruel until I wore out, calmed down and worked anger and
fear out of my system. You allowed me to
find perspective.
My favorite time with you is when we
pray together. As we make our prayer
music my spirit soars and I am elevated to higher plains. Through you I feel my savior’s love as He
takes the music we’ve created and breathes upon it, and returns it to us
fuller, richer and greater than the creation you and I made alone. I love your companionship as I commune with
Him.
I have had to learn to share with others
the space you took in my heart and I am grateful to you for allowing me to do
this. As you have not begrudged me my
time with my family, I have not begrudged the time you spend with each of
them. I feel much of the same joy in the
relationships you have made with my children as I do in our own relationship.
Thank you for being a true friend.
Love,
Jen
This last essay was to be about a memory.
Evidence
John came through the door, set his lunch box down, took
me in his arms, and smiling, kissed me on the forehead. “It looks like you have had a good day,” he
said stifling a laugh. The day had been busy,
but was it good? I looked around our small living room at the "Kid" mess, the "Me" mess and smelled dinner cooking from the kitchen that had its own mess.
The children had
awakened early, but happy. I waived my right to a shower and we spent the
morning playing together. There was a green marker lid under the table from
crafting cards to send to Grandma. The
cards were beautifully designed with child drawings of hearts, and flowers, and
rainbows. Child script was punctuated
with smiley face stickers and kisses, and these expressions of love were
translated into small print at the bottom of the pages. There was a small
tantrum thrown when it was time to clean up so I covered my child’s face with
the stickers while singing, “When you see a frowny face, do not let it
stay…” It worked.
“Thank you, Mommy, for singing my sad away. I will share my stickers with you.” She placed one on my face; I kissed her eyes,
and she kissed my nose. We were friends
again.
After lunch, I fixed hair and washed two small faces,
then we loaded into car seats and drove to the elementary school. The drop off circle was filled with moms
waiting to pick kids up, so we parked in a space near the teacher’s parking and
walked into school together. Her teacher
had been assigned to duties at the front door and she greeted us as we went
in. We made a small detour at the office
to pay for next week’s field trip, and at the library to return an overdue book. I kissed my big girl goodbye at the classroom
door.
The toddler and I ran a few errands together: the bank,
the grocery store, the post office. We
had picked out pretty stamps with bright pink flowers on them for the letter to
grandma, and sent it off sealed with a kiss.
We made it home for a short nap before returning to the school, this
time early enough to use the pick-up circle.
At home, while I prepared dinner, the girls had been
entertaining themselves with blocks, dominoes, hair clips and an assortment of
Barbie dolls. The toy box was empty, the
whereabouts of the previous contents unknown.
The box was turned on its side and was being used to make a house for
Barbie and her friends. I smiled as I
looked at them remembering having done the same thing when I was small.
Bringing my attention back to John, I said, “I suppose the
day has been alright, but why is that so funny?” He led me down the hall and turned me into
the bathroom. He flipped on the light and I saw
it reflected in the mirror. Directly in
the middle of my forehead was a bright purple smiley face sticker. I calmly
turned off the light, kissed my husband, and walked back to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to take it off?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “It looks like I’ve had a good
day!”
