In His Hands

Almost instinctively, we casually intertwined our fingers and absent-mindedly rubbed our thumbs in circles periodically across the back of the other hand. We had done the same thing day after day for a quarter of a century, touch being an essential love language for us both. If we were near enough, inevitably our hands found each other and settled into their own lover’s embrace. On this occasion we sat at a back corner table in a piano bar on a cruise ship. The tiny bar teemed with other passengers, most a little tipsy, all seemingly enjoying the talented crooning and gentle humor of the British pianist as he regaled us with classic rock ballads. Many shouted requests, including the lady insistent he play some song she couldn’t remember but he must know. (She seemed more than just a bit tipsy and we never did figure out what song she wanted.) The crowd swayed back and forth in rhythm, halfway between a dance and a counterbalance to the rocking of the ship.

When the pianist began the next song, the hand entwined with my own gave me two gentle squeezes, as if to say, “hey babe, it’s one your favorites.” He knew me well. For as long as I have been making playlists, this was one of a half dozen songs guaranteed to make an appearance on each of them. I loved multiple versions of the song, whether it was the original 1988 country version by Keith Whitley, the later cover by country singer Alison Krauss in 1995, or Irish pop singer Ronan Keating’s release in 1999 for the movie Notting Hill. Each found a place in both my heart and on at least one of my regular playlists. This live performance was no disappointment.

Happily I sang along, off-key, with the rest of the crowd, the lyrics I knew so well and loved even more. I used to think they described true love perfectly but I was about to realize I had never really understood them.

When we got to the line, “The touch of your hand says you'll catch me wherever I fall..” emotion overwhelmed me and saved the nearby tables from hearing more of my pitchy voice. I could barely contain the tears burning my eyes and felt a lump in my throat. I looked at the hand grasping my own. The lyrics suddenly took on deeper meaning and opened my eyes. After two and half decades I saw his hands, those fingers, the familiar arms, in a whole new, stunningly beautiful, light.

Years of hard work have left his fingers calloused and marred with a distinctive jagged scar running down the inside of his center right finger and another making a perfect crescent moon atop his top knuckle on the left thumb. Patches of skin flake, crack, and bleed from exposure to severe elements in our chilly hometown and harsh chemicals used at his work. But each seemingly ugly flaw stands as a beautiful attestation of the devotion to providing for our little family. Rough as they appear, when his fingers trace my face they are soft and gentle, wiping away my tears, fears, and anxiety. When they entwine my own, I find myself home even in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

For years I have watched him in awe. His careful hands move deliberately and with purpose. He clicks together those pieces, sands down that rough edge, slides parts back in place with precision. He can fix anything with a motor, build anything out of wood, and mold scraps of leather into something useful. His hands never sit idle long, always ready for the next emergency project around our house, at the neighbor’s, or for the stranger stranded on the side of the road. And with those same humble hands, he gently zips up my dresses, fastens my bracelets, brushes the hair from my eyes. When he places one on the small of my back, I feel safe in the darkest of places.

His arms are massive barrels that struggle to fit into shirts and jackets. His muscles are not toned and sculpted from days at the gym on a weight bench. No, his strength is born from hours of hard labor, pushing, pulling, fighting with stubborn parts and years of carrying, wrestling with, and hugging three strapping young boys. His thick arms can be intimidating, making him seem menacing to strangers. Yet those arms stand at the ready, always waiting to catch me when I stumble and save me from another fall. When they wrap tight around me, I can be vulnerable and safely cry away the façade I put up for the rest of the world. His arms hold me when I feel broken and beaten, weak and useless, and then gently lift me back up to face tomorrow with new resolve.

Though the music continued, the world stood still for just a moment as I looked at that man with his protective arms, modest hands, and tireless fingers. I thought back over the past three years and my struggle with severe, continuous vertigo. It's been debilitating and disruptive to both our lives. I have fallen and hurt myself more times than I can count. My world threatened to shrink as simple daily tasks became dangerous. Finally, with the dawn of 2024, we found hope in a new treatment that seemed to give me some reprieve. As my good days began to slowly catch up to my bad days, together we celebrated, we hoped, and we dared plan crazy adventures. More and more, I left my trusty walker behind and felt confident going out with just my husband there to lean on.

Through it all, he had stayed by my side. With an outstretched arm and sturdy hand, always ready to catch me wherever I fell, he gave me back confidence and security. With a comforting embrace, he let me cry out my frustrations and fears. With an encouraging grasp, he helped me find strength to get up again and keep going.

Knowing he would be by my side at all times, I felt comfortable doing the unthinkable and got on a cruise ship that November, despite my unsteady feet. He walked at my side, steady and strong, and caught me as I stumbled around. He didn't complain when we had to forgo more exciting excursions and activities. He was just happy to be able to share the time with me. He walked at my slower pace and held my hand with his own.

And so, we found ourselves in the middle of the Pacific, aboard a cruise ship, sitting in a crowded piano bar. As he held my hand and I listened to the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, I couldn't help thinking they had been written just for us.