These Hands

I am a writer, an artist, a painter, and a graduate student. All of these skills require two things: my mind and my hands. While my mind is still fairly sharp and my imagination shows no signs of dimming, my hands are another story altogether.

I’ve known for a while that I have a degenerative form of arthritis and I’m barely past 40 years old. My hip began to fail me many, many years ago and my knee is grumpier than a two year old before a nap, but in the past few months this disease has made its way to my hands. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t extremely scared.

For a while I tried to ignore the pain in my fingers, brush it off as them being overworked from writing papers, or spending hours going over research notes. I rationalized the stiffness and ignored the signs because I don’t have time to slow down. But now, the pain that shoots through my joints and keeps me up at night is beginning to demand my immediate attention.

I’m an intelligent person. I realize that the pain means the deterioration of the joints is beginning. I know that medical treatment is the only way to ensure my fingers will remain nimble. I know what can happen if I let it go for much longer because I’ve seen the warped fingers of friends and relatives who have struggled with the destructive types of arthritis. It’s just so much easier to stifle the fear and just ignore it for a little bit longer.

Then the other day I had a very sobering moment: I couldn't wear my engagement ring because of swollen joints.

Sometimes it’s the little things that hit us the hardest.

So in the coming months I will be seeking treatment for this disease. I’ll just add this to my already crammed schedule because the alternative means I would lose a very important tool. This experience has forced me to look at my hands as more than just an extension of myself; they are an extension of my faith and that is something bigger than just the need to feed my creative desires and do schoolwork.

These sore hands are not just things made out of flesh, bones and cartilage, they are tools of change and a way to show the love of my God to those who may not know Him or the peace He offers. The power of touch, the ability to wipe away a tear or hold the hand of a little child goes far beyond my dislike of doctors and the discomfort that treatment will bring.

I type words to speak out against the injustices I see, to offer support to those with broken spirits, or to cheer on those who are fighting for the forgotten children of the world. I do not spend hours studying in the hopes that I will become rich, but to make a positive impact on our world. When I look outside of myself and my own selfish wants, I see that these painful little phalanges are a way of sharing the gifts and blessings I’ve received.

Yes, these hands are an important part of me, but I now see them as more than just my hands; they are my voice as well and they will continue to speak out against social inequality and about a loving and generous God.

Funny that it took a disease to teach me how to appreciate the simplest things, like the ability to type words onto a page. I can assure you, I’ll not be taking this for granted again. Ever.

Does it hurt when I type these words? Yes, a little. But the alternative would be far more painful, I can assure you.

Let us never forget that we all have the ability to make this world a better place for the weak and vulnerable among us. Let us not waver in that work no matter the discomfort we may suffer.