I have big hands. I mean remarkably big hands. You can’t tell just by looking at me, but the width, length and span of my hands is enormous. If it comes up in conversation with a guy, I generally get “Oh, come on, they can’t be that big…” as he raises his own in challenge, only to (in all but four cases in the past three years) lower it, embarrassed and outsized. If hands are compared with another woman, almost always is there a wince of sympathy or an “I’m sorry” given, or startled “Whoa!” On one memorable occasion the woman in question gasped “Oh, you poor thing,” as she patted my arm, then brightly cheered “But at least you have great boobs!” Phew, I thought, weirdly amused, good thing I didn’t let the team down!

I like my hands. In many ways they signify a chunk of my history, capabilities, remind me of successes, talents and hopes. They remind me that genetically I should have been at least six feet tall (a childhood chronic illness and bombardment with steroids put paid to that reality). They have tenderly traced the freshly delivered curves of my sons’ faces, and continue to hold those same two faces each day for newly minted kisses. My hands have: secured an arm bar perfectly, getting my Ju-jitsu opponent to immediately tap out; madly waved at loved ones arriving/departing at airports, cars and schools; created perfect pavlovas and ganache; and, decades ago, were taught how to shake hands properly (“Strong, firm, look them in the eye”) by my grandfather. My hands, folded – a clumsy origami of skin, pulse and hope – have been the launch pad for a billion hundred prayers.

I can look at my hands and see losses too. My chunky knuckles come from that same grandfather, who since has stepped from this life; no doubt firmly shaking the hand of the first person he saw waiting for him. My right hand had the remarkable talent of giving injections so smoothly as a student nurse that the receiver didn’t feel them; nerve damage and resulting fine tremor in the same hand last year silently ended that skill. The pale line and shiny skin revealed when my wedding band was removed for the last time have disappeared, unnoticed. A scar on a finger marks the ending of a friendship. The wide, forever stretch of my fingers reminds me of my Nanna’s sorrow at my six year old self’s inability to learn the piano. “With such long fingers, not to play the piano? What a waste,” she sighed.

But while pianos and I never clicked, you know what the long, impressive stretch of my hands helps me do now? The span and strength of my fingers easily manoeuvre and finesse the levers on my forklift, loading dangerous goods, fragile equipment, literally tonnes of goods on and off b-doubles and trucks every weekday with precision, speed and skill. An ability I’m paid well for, which means I can buy groceries, and petrol, and provide for my sons, both now and maybe even at a myriad of other tasks in the future, when those same beloved faces are kissed and sent on their missions, marry, become fathers and give me new faces to curl my large palms around, with fresh curves to trace and memorise.

1 Ne 21: 16 Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.

Maybe my hands won’t be given that opportunity. I have personal, awful experience in having things, people and dreams torn, drift or evaporate from my reach, no matter how loving, desperate or capable my grip. My marriage ended, my then-husband reaching to hands that weren’t mine – “Why?” and “What do I do now?” clogging my thoughts and prayers as my fingers grew soft and wrinkled from constant tears. My goal to become a nurse was taken suddenly away, laying years of my life useless, the frustration and pain of which I threw at God, hands twisting against each other in furious devastation. Even now, sometimes my hands clench into fists, half-cocked while waiting for the next difficulty to come pounding along to snatch and grapple at my life, plans and loved ones.

My most difficult efforts lately are trying to keep my hands relaxed, calm, palms open. My hands are capable, strong, dedicated and feisty – and oh so reluctant to let others take anything from my grip. I struggle with letting other people into my life, in handing over some of the stress and bustle and responsibility and quest for control that is even more deeply ingrained in my knuckles and fingerprints than the dirt and grime from work. Stress chews little crescents into my palms some days/nights/weeks, my joints cracking and groaning under the pressure of holding everything together. I have impressively large hands! I’m capable! I can do it, and all of it, and fantastically, right?

Actually….No. I can’t. I’ve been learning (again, maybe even finally) that I don’t have to grasp everything tightly to my chest; some things are fine to be left fluttering to the ground, a surprising number of issues or tasks are able to be handballed to offering friends, and it’s perfectly wonderful to throw a headful of worries and shouldacouldas like glitter into the air. Lately I’m finding myself stretching my fingers backwards, rolling my wrists and massaging my knuckles during prayer – a meditative, gentle centering of my sinews and bones as my thoughts and worries tumble into the Lord’s lap, leaving me soft, eased and warm as new toffee. Late at night, as my hands soak up thick lotion, I’m feeling the deep, resonant reassurance and reminder that I am loved by God, by Christ, guided and uplifted by Them – held so carefully in hands much larger than mine.

Mormon 5:23 Know ye not that ye are in the hands of God? 

Does a part of your body speak of your strengths, history and talents? How has your body lead to you to change the way you see your life, your relationship with God, your sense of self? Had any small epiphanies about/because of your body lately?