These small hands …

“These hands are beautiful and precious. With them you will do much good. You will do many great things that honour God.  God will use them to bring healing.” 

 – a dear friend xx

As my friend spoke these words I was simultaneously brought to tears and gripped with scorn. Yeah, right. Have you seen them. They’re pretty useless.

I hated them. I hated everything about them. I’d do anything to hide them.

My hands are a source of great pain and a visual reminder of a crippling disease. Small. Deformed. Crippled. Weak. Gumby…. you name it. Though surgical intervention has reduced the pain and allowed some function, they still remind me that not all is well in my body.

I look back at photos of myself at the age of 7 or 8 and tears roll down my face. I’m drawn to the small, swollen hands, on the brink of falling apart. Joints weakened by arthritis and bones so small they almost disappear. I see the beginning of the deformities. The memories are perhaps worse than the reality was at the time. I knew no different then. I didn’t know what was coming, nor the impact it would have.

I remember the joints dislocating (subluxing) and each time it becoming more crippling. They crippled quickly as a child and attempts were made to save the joints through ongoing splinting, occupational and physio therapy. But dislocations took time; most of the finger joints dislocating completely while I was in high school.

Sometimes I would sit on the bus in silent tears rubbing my joints, begging them to stay in alignment, knowing that they were mere days away from ‘falling off’. The synovial fluid would cause swelling, the tendons would slip and the bones would slip past the joint. Occasionally I could pull them back into alignment, but never for long. Splints were useless at this point. All I could do was wait to come of age for surgical intervention, and watch the rest of the joints ‘go’, one by one over the following decade until there was hardly a bone in its ‘rightful’ place.

The wrists did the same thing – the left one was particularly spectacular. The meta carpal bones essentially disintegrated and my hand all but fell off my wrist – the ulna was on top of my hand. The result is 2 fused wrists: one at 19 and the other at 23 (because in my pride I chose pain because I refused to be a 21  year old with 2 fused wrists).

After all the operations – Palm down, 2014

Palm up, 2014

My hands held me back. Grip failed frequently, resulting in embarrassments as drinks fell into my lap without any recognition from my brain as to what had happened. Piano keys now tapped one at a time, fingers mashing keyboards and clapping something representative of a monkey wearing mittens.

My 7 year old has bigger hands than me. My 4 year old is catching up!

My friend held my hands and spoke: “These hands are beautiful and precious. With them you will do much good. You will do many great things that honour God.  God will use them to bring healing.”   As she drew attention to my hands there were tears of doubt and pain. Deep hurts reflective of years of splinting, stiffness, stretching,  physical therapy, torture … Could they really be useful or of value. Could I be useful or of value? Ouch!

Interesting, isn’t it?! Somehow these words unlocked a world of pain that revealed something that was holding me back. Something I never thought to be ‘true’. I try not to let my body dictate who I am – I have known for a long time that I am far more than this vessel. I rebel against the system and make every effort to prove people wrong (more on that later). But perhaps there’s more; something so deep it went undetected…  perhaps there’s a sense of shame?

Could there be healing from these hands?  Could they hold the keys to freedom? What if these hands can reflect the heart – the heart that screams for grace and mercy. The heart that screams for peace and healing in this broken world.

On reflection, these are hands that:

• rub my children’s backs to connect and comfort
• holds their hands across the street to keep them safe
• prepares food to nourish
• bakes to bless
• gently rest on a friend’s shoulder to comfort
• write to bring hope

Somehow  these hands continue to function despite the pain, smallness, stiffness and deformity.

Will I ever be unashamed of the hands that have not seen healing? I don’t know, but perhaps in realising that though broken they are of value, there is hope.

My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
– Jewel, “Hands”