My hands are old. Long before my face and body let out the secret of my age, my hands eagerly betrayed it. They say Hands will always give away a woman's true age. I have my mothers hands now. Without my knowledge, in secret, my hands went from the thin smooth unmarked hands of my youth to the thick meatier hands of my old age barbed with knotty knuckles and large blue veins like the blue lines of a map pointing the way through the many stories of my life and labor. It brings new light to the term "Hand Made" What makes hand made so special? Perhaps it is all those stories that pour out of just such hands onto the thing being crafted that will then be carried away by the receiver of such hand made gifts. I believe all the hand made creations that dot our home have their own sort of osmosis transferring into our souls bits and pieces of stories that then become part of our own story. I have made it a hobby of mine to fill my house with hand made items. I prefer the stories and love of others to surround me than the mass produced cultural blanks for purchase. There are so many stories to tell about the hand made items in my house but two such stories come to mind now.
I remember being at the home of a woman. she was throwing a big party. She was using the laundry room as a sort of staging area. I was there to help. As I quickly stowed away dirty trays into the laundry room, I noticed bright colored art made with the thick club strokes quintessential of a toddler hand still unfamiliar with finer motor skills hanging all over the walls. I asked her why she had her child's art hidden in her laundry room. She said her interior designer said it detracted from the tone of the room when it was on the refrigerator. She said removing the art from the fridge kept it in line with the clean sparse lines of the decor. I wondered if "clean sparse lines" should be the goal. I'm not sure how a toddler fits into clean and sparse. I think it sent a powerful message to that child. It said your world is too messy, too undeveloped, too clumsy. The toddler would have to stay in the "staging area" before being part of the '"show" that was the rest of the house. Because of that experience, I make a point to put my children's art work on the fridge under a magnet. I value the work of their hands more than clean lines.
Another hand made story came when my second child, a girl, was born. Mary. Being quite perfect, Mary was born with down syndrome. I will never forget the fragile first days of her birth, the shock, the grief, the fear like a fire burning me up. As a family, we decided we had two ways to live this first weekend home from the hospital. We could fret and worry and keep burning. Or we could invite joy to our hearts and take Mary out into the world. Naturally, we all went out for pizza and a movie (The Bourne Ultimative). As we came out of the theatre, we ran into a woman from our church. I barely knew her and would have walked right past her (not really recognizing her) if she had not stopped me. She asked to see Mary. I told her Mary had been born with down syndrome. She must have felt the grief and shakiness coming from me. She took Mary and held her. She teared up and just held her and said how truly beautiful Mary was. It was a special moment for my family, as it was Mary's first introduction in public. This woman allowed us all to exhale and breathe deeply her acceptance. That Sunday, she came straight way to me as I sat on the pew and handed me a white Hand Made treasure. As I unfolded it, It was a perfectly crocheted white baby blanket. It's pure white color matching the charity of this gracious woman. A closer look revealed perfect ornate detail worked by her knowing and skillful hands. It was a blanket fit for a baby born of royal birth. And with this one gift, the osmosis worked and without words I knew everything she wanted to convey to me. I knew that she wanted me to know that my baby was perfect. Like someone quickly throwing a blanket around a person on fire and patting them to the ground, so her white blanket extinguished the flames of fears burning me.
