Many thanks to Jeanne Webster at Women’s Window for her post Holding On; for the idea to create my own list of things my hands have held onto over the years:

*  *  *  *  *

Dad’s and Mom’s fingers.  The lacy ribbon of a baby blanket.

Furniture as I learned how to walk.

My baby dolls.

My own fingers as I held them behind my back to keep the nurse from sticking another needle into my fingertips when I was in the hospital at 4 years old with Intracranial Hematoma.

Crayons.  A Kellogg’s character spoon filled with hot chicken noodle soup.  A cup of Mom’s steaming, homemade Hershey’s cocoa.

The coarse mane of a pony.

A shiny yellow pencil as I learned to write.

The tail of a squirming mouse that had run past my feet.

Pop’s playing cards as we sat at the dining room table.  The hand of the policeman that took my fingerprints after Pop’s and Grandma’s house had been broken into.

The railing on the bus steps my first day of school.  School papers and books.  The hand of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Rattigan, on our last day of school as I cried over missing her.  School report cards.

Mr. Heath’s hand as he led me in a prayer of forgiveness and salvation in my backyard.

Sweet Sugar Daddys and icy blue raspberry popsicles.

Yellow, fuzzy baby chicks that Grampa Olcott handed me from the incubator.

The strong shoulders of my brother’s friend Terry after my finger was shut in the hinge side of the car door.

Grampa Olcott’s hand as we watched his goldfish in his backyard pond.

Scrabble letters and game board on Gramma and Grampa Olcott’s trestle table.  Crackers and cream cheese at their kitchen table.

Bloodied towels after I wiped out on my bike and split my right eyebrow open.

Barbie dolls and oranges from the top of my Christmas stocking.  Cold, packed snow that we built into a fort at the side of the road and then stupidly jumped into when the snowplow came past.

My first attempt at a meal at home, learned in Home Ec. — tuna noodle casserole and Denver Chocolate Pudding.

Vinyl records — Harvest by Neil Young; Something’s Wrong With Me by Austin Roberts; Knocking On Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan; Sylvia’s Mother by Dr. Hook; Vincent and American Pie by Don McLean; Diary by Bread.

Buddy’s hand as we walked to the buses after school.

Pencil sketches of actor Pete Duel that were drawn from an aching heart after his death.

Metal handle of an old lawn mower.  The bloody shin that came into contact with those blades.

A very immature letter to a boy that I liked, trying to explain my faith.  The letter of a friend that very clearly explained the plan of salvation, written to the same boy in order to cover the gaps left in mine.

Soft leather moccasins that had to be worn for days after I almost cut my little toe completely off.

A football in the backyard.

John’s hand as he asked me to marry him.  A silver engagement ring.

A baseball and bat on the church ball field.

Dad’s arm as he walked me down the aisle.  Marriage certificate.  Gramma Olcott’s hand as she told me never to go to bed angry with each other.

The tiny bundle of joy and love that was my son.  Dedication certificate as we gave J to the Lord and promised to bring him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

My high school diploma.

J’s hand as he learned to walk at 10 months, and as we walked to Skaneateles Lake from our apartment over a barber shop to watch the ducks.  Handlebars of J’s tiny yellow bike as he learned to ride a 2 wheeler at three years old.  Training wheels when he insisted he was no longer a baby and could ride like the big boys.

Hot popcorn at the local drive-in theater.

Cakes and decorating tubes filled with homemade butter cream frosting.

Tickets to a Benny Mardones concert.  Benny’s autograph and arm as he stood beside me for a picture.

Pastor Hansen’s arm as he baptized me.  Baptismal certificate.

J’s shoulder as I yelled at him for taking ten years off my life after he sailed off a ski jump made for a competition when he was only five years old.  My K2 skis and ski poles.

Mortgage papers to our house.  One of Gramma Olcott’s china teapots that she gave me as a housewarming present.

J’s bloody elbow after he wiped out on his bike on the pavement.

Dad’s hand the night before he died.  A single rose to lay on Dad’s coffin.

My first computer.

Divorce papers.

Uncle David’s strong grip as he prayed for me.

The freedom/fear of being on my own for the first time in my life.

My Jack Van Impe Bible that Mom gave me.

A new marriage license.

Bill’s arm as we walked down the aisle.

Marriage certificate.

Our first granddaughter, Anita-Marie.

Tickets to my first NASCAR race at Watkins Glenn.

Our second granddaughter, Ciara.

My precious Kayla when Bill brought her to me as a puppy for a Christmas present.

Sunday morning bulletins, monthly church newsletters as they ran through the printer, church files and folders.

The steering wheel of my one and only car.

Our first grandson Michael William.   Our second grandson Michael Charles.

Two tiny balls of fur that would grow into the terror Chloe and the beleaguered Leah.

Scrapbook materials.

The title to my car when I sold it due to financial struggles.  Bankruptcy papers when Bill and I were both out of work

Dad Mott’s arm, Mom Mott’s arm, our son-in-law’s arm as I said goodbye to each of them at the funeral home.

Sandy’s leash as we brought her home from my in-law’s.

Kayla’s head as she breathed her last breath.  Her red kerchief, collar and box of ashes.

Uncle David’s and Aunt Bernie’s hands on their last Sunday at church.

The mouse and keyboard as I opened my wordpress account and set up my blog.

Our tiny baby granddaughter Skylar Ashley.

The hand of my Lord and Savior as He leads me through this life.

What have your hands held onto?

© Drusilla Mott and, 2012


15 thoughts on “IN THESE HANDS

    • Thank you Debbie. Writing this brought to mind the awards that travel throughout the blog world and how they are supposed to be a way to thank those that are such an encouragement, but also so that we can learn more about each other. As you know, I have tried to use my awards as ways to bring honor to the Lord, and not to myself, but with that, I am not revealing anything about myself. I really liked Jeanne’s list of things, and felt the way you said, honored to be brought into her life that way. The idea kept growing in my mind to do one of my own. So glad you enjoyed it.


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