Hands

As a newborn I was cradled by my Daddy’s tan, broad hands. As a toddler I learned to walk by clenching his strong and calloused fingers. To me my Daddy’s hands are a symbol of strength and safety.

My hands, though, are like my Mom’s. Mom’s hands are more fragile with long, graceful fingers. Our hands are only different because Mom's hands are worn from caring for a family while my hands are most accustomed to typing and page-turning, the two main activities of a student.

But now I am almost done with college. It is time for my hands to become worn with service, older, wiser, and the strength and safety for others.

A few days ago, a kindergartner, small for his age, trotted up to me and slipped his tiny hand trustingly in mine. He led me around the school clockwise (his reward for listening during writing time) and swung his other arm while he chatted about his friends in other grades and remarked about the places we passed; our tour ended all too soon.

When I saw my kindergarten escort touring the halls today, I changed directions to say hi. He had welcomed me so naturally, so kindly, so trustingly.

I hope as I become a teacher that my hands will become worn with service, older, wiser, and the strength and safety for others, worthy of the trust of the little man who slipped his hand in mine.