Working Hands.

My parents taught us hands were made for working.  And when we worked, we worked together.  Sometimes we made beautiful things; sometimes we worked on things that just needed to be done.  But whatever it was, I never saw my mother or father hire a plumber or contractor, painter or landscaper.  We did everything with our own hands.  We painted walls, held ladders so my father could scale too-high places, pushed wheelbarrows, learned to grout and lay tile.  Our small hands worked alongside theirs.  When I think of all the important things my parents have taught my siblings and me over the years, this is the one I always come back to:  hands are made for working.  The older Jane and Henry grow, the more I love watching them develop a relationship with their hands.  Holding, building, digging, gripping, never too young to realize the strength, flexibility, and thoughtfulness embedded in each small finger, direct extensions of their soul.