I have ugly hands. I used to look at my classmates' hands, with their smooth skin, long slender fingers, and a watch sliding down from their wrists, and wish my hands looked that good. And when I got a watch, nothing changed with my hands.
My hands have thin skin with veins standing up, painful arthritis knots on my fingers, white scars from the removal of precancerous spots, red spots from sun exposure, and even the slightest bump makes a purple spot on them.
My hands are working hands. They can do the simplest of things, from brushing my teeth to combing my hair and pulling on my socks. They can wash dishes, clean toilets, change bedsheets, hold a broom handle and a dust cloth, hold a bottle for the calf, pick up chickens, catch a cow in the head gate, and steer a tractor. They can shell peas and peel potatoes, and although there's a little tremble in them at times, they can still thread a needle and guide it through the layers of a quilt and turn the thin pages of my Bible.
I have good hands and have no need to hide them; for who is going to remember me with, "Do you remember what ugly hands Charlotte had?" I hope the day never comes when my hands lie idle in my lap.
God is good!! Charlotte