Our Tactile Treasures

I was too tired to multitask. So I assigned my fingers to hold non-related items. Suddenly, the light! My hands were a tactile treasure.

Our fingers are keys to the locks of our very existence. From day one, as we slid out of the birth canal, we were reaching for the source of life-giving milk. Our mother, with outstretched arms and loving hands, drew us to her nourishing breath.

In time, we learned how to feed, dress, play and create, with our ever-ready hands. We became basket weavers, blackboard teachers, inquisitive creatures, always reaching. But when, in writing my gratitude list did I ever thank God for the miracle of my hands? For without them, what could I do?

 Artificial extremities can be a marvelous remedy, but nothing takes the place of blood-warmed, loving hands.

Think of the hand-crafted arts: kneading bread,  painting, writing, and strumming musical instruments. No computers, just ink and pen. The calligraphy of divine inspiration.

Fast-forward. We love to garden, bury the acorn that becomes a giant oak. We love to weed the weeds and plant the seeds that garden our earth; that feed us with fruits that delight our palette. And create hot fudge sundaes that disaster our weight.

At seventy-five, I converted to Catholicism. I learned of sins of commission, but slid over sins of omission. It was one busy, bathroom-cleaning morning that I suddenly realized I had never thanked God for my hands.

Many years later, in 1992, two policemen rang our front doorbell. They told me my son had been killed in an automobile accident. My hands resisted opening the door, but when I did I realized that I had to call our Rabbi to come immediately. After weeping and calling out- "Oh my God! Oh my God!" I implored the policeman to hold my hand as we ran for the telephone.

The days and nights following the funeral were filled with family, friends, neighbors, and school acquaintances. They would often cup my face with their hands. Their hands reached to hug me. They came with full hands--bearing food, flowers, and love. My hands learned to cup the tearful faces of others who have lost loved ones. My hands have learned to reach for the frozen hands of others--frozen with fear, with loneliness, rigid with lack of hope.

Currently, I visualize the prayerful hands of Jews, as they unscroll the Torah, and read with a pointer in hand, the sacred text.

Catholics receive the Eucharist, the body and blood of Jesus, on tongue or hand.

Muslims, with steadying hand, draw their prayerful bodies to the ground.

It should not have taken me 88 years to become aware of the miracle of my hands. They are indeed a tactile treasure. And when fingertips are inked and pressed, voila--our fingerprints! It still blows me away to accept the fact that our fingertips are never duplicated. They contribute to our total uniqueness as individuals. But why would it be otherwise, when we are made in the image of God?