My Husband's Hand

I lay awake on my back in the dark listening to my husband's soft breathing. He lay on his stomach, his right arm tossed across my neck, hand resting on my face. I held that hand with my left and nestled my cheek into its cup, seeing it in my mind. My right hand gently brushed the arm hair, traced the outline of the fingers, encountered the roughness of a hangnail and the scab of a cut.

Not a large hand. But not small. And big enough to swallow mine when he grabs it while we cross an icy street or hike over rough terrain.

A balanced hand.

A kind hand.

Not a rough hand. But a hand that handles paper and holds phones. But not a soft hand, either. A hand that hauls wood into the house after a 16-hour day so I don't need to. That empties the litter box and fishes recyclables out of the trash (and sometimes food, but that's another story). A hand that spent several weekends trying to reconstruct our daughter's walkway.

A caring hand.

A kind hand.

Not a pasty hand. But a hand sprinkled with sun spots from summers working in the field. A hand that steered a tractor when it was only 6 years old and bottle fed calves and and bedded bulls and showed horses. A hand that created gifts for his mother, including a piece of clay art that I display in my office. I wish I'd seen that child hand.

A precious hand.

A kind hand.

Not a weak hand. A hand with roping veins and a strong slow pulse at the wrist. A pulse that beats with love for his family. A hand that shovels snow before I'm up--and then shovels for a neighbor. A hand that washes dishes and cleans bathrooms and vacuums carpets. A hand that helps my son's girlfriend with her taxes after a long day at the office.

A helpful hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that carried Frostys and other special treats to his nursing home-confined father, in spite of verbal abuse. A hand that helped his dad to and from his wheelchair, to and from his car to drive him to doctor's appointments and out to eat.

A compassionate hand.

A kind hand.

Not a grasping hand. An open hand. A hand that pulls bills from his pocket to give to a man on the street or a child that needs (wants) a little extra, leaving him with enough for something off the dollar menu or a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

A sacrificial hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that changed diapers and plays board games and reads books and searches under covers for a hiding child when he can hardly keep his eyes open.

A patient hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasps a stray dog or cuddles a lost kitten or carries an unwelcome housebound insect outside. A hand that walked a colic-suffering horse all night, in the depth of winter. That brushed an icy tear from his own eye.

A tender hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that held me when I wanted to beat the stuffing out of one of our kids for some reason.

A restraining hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that stroked my forehead as I awakened from anesthesia.

A gentle hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasped mine when he noticed a single tear as I recently lay on an emergency room gurney. Even after my frustrated and angry and undeserved tirade against him earlier that evening.

A forgiving hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that slipped a ring on my finger over 38 years ago when he promised to love and cherish me through better and worse until parted by death.

A loving hand.

A kind hand.

My husband's hand.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience." Colossians. 3:12

Have you encountered a kind hand?

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on KINDNESS. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King