Helping hands. Often we use that term metaphorically, as a way to illustrate the love and encouragement that others offer us. Lately, though, I’ve been considering helping hands more literally. I’ve been noticing the mystical language of hands — the hope, comfort and support they offer those in need.
For example, I remember a story, years ago, about a baby girl who had been kidnapped from her mother’s van. As I looked at the photograph accompanying the newspaper story, as I watched a live broadcast of the family reunion on television, I couldn’t stop noticing the hands. First, I noticed the young mother’s hands, heavily bandaged—evidence of the valiant struggle she had endured to protect her child. Her husband stood next to her, cupping her elbow protectively, guiding her steps towards their child.
The television shot showed the mother’s hands, reaching out to her baby in utter joy. And, a moment later, an older woman, undoubtedly the child’s grandmother, extended her hands, trembling with emotion, to touch the little one. I suspect there was another moment, not captured by cameras, when, throughout America, the hands of those watching grabbed a tissue, to dry tears of happiness for a family, mercifully reunited.
In recent days, we see dozens of hands in war-torn countries, carrying shroud-wrapped loved ones to their graves. Everywhere in the world, there are hands wiping away tears, hands preparing meals to comfort the living. We see attorneys, often with tears in their eyes, putting a supportive arm around their clients as the sentence is received.
Often, it seems, we see hands working frantically to extricate the living from mine cave-ins, building explosions, floods, fires and earthquakes, all over the world. Relatives stand by holding one another’s hands in hope, wiping away tears of anguish, raising hands heavenward in prayer, and then — sometimes, but not often enough — clutching loved ones to their hearts in gratitude, as they are brought forth from what could have been their tomb.
Locally, we see unselfish, generous hands pitching in to clean up devastation caused by fierce storms. We see hands folded in prayer, hands putting offerings in collection baskets. We see sports fans, pumping their fists in the air to encourage their team, “high fiving” in victory, or sitting in disbelief, hands covering their faces, when their team loses. We see hands applauding at plays and concerts. We see hands creating works of art. We see plump, tiny toddlers’ hands, held aloft, learning to wave “bye-bye.”
We see a violinist’s hands on her instrument, fingering it with such intimacy that the instrument seems like an extension of her body, her heart. We see the hand of a police officer as he embraces his wife, his face hidden in the comfort of her neck, wordlessly seeking sustenance, answers, as he attends the wake of a fellow officer, shot down for no reason.
We see a mother, crouching over the dead body of her teenage son, shot down for no reason. She claws at her face, trying to wrench from her mind what she sees before her. Hands surround her: a sister, a friend, an EMS worker, strangers. Everywhere on earth, a multitude of hands, of every race, every political stripe, comfort one another each day, in similar, grief-filled moments. Words falling short, they transmit compassion, support and prayer through their loving hands.
Once, I saw the aftermath of a multi-car accident. Several men, with strong yet gentle hands, had pulled a young woman out of an overturned vehicle and were placing her, with utmost care, on the grass. Other hands, outstretched, offered bottles of water to those in need, while others clasped cell phones, calling for help. Help that would be delivered by the caring, professional hands of paramedics and police officers, nurses and doctors.
I see a 90-year-old woman’s hands, knotted and gnarled with arthritis, endlessly baking and cooking for her family. Her hands tremble more now, yet she cups each loved one’s face, tenderly, as she kisses them goodbye.
Whether elegant or callused, small or large, the hands of others uplift us, support us and, indeed, serve as the hands of the Creator on earth. The hands of family, friends, coworkers and even strangers arrive, often mysteriously or unexpectedly, whenever we need them. These hands are generously offered— without regard for color, creed or political leanings. They are freely given to us, these hands; filled with care and concern, ready to share our joy or pain, to hold us up or pull us back.
Hands extended to offer assistance are the personification of all that is best in the human spirit. They are symbols of love, community and compassion. They are messengers of hope. And they remind us that we have far, far more in common than whatever we may believe separates us.
Kathy Baker is a writer and speaker, a messenger of encouragement who loves to touch hearts and tickle souls with her work. She is the author of “Leaving Adversity Plaza,” and “A Tale of Three Choices: His, Hers, Mine.” She loves hearing from her readers and can be reached at [email protected].