Little Hands

The first time I saw my Lucy’s little hands was on an imaging screen at the doctor’s office during one of Carrie’s check-ups. I had forgotten that until looking back and readying my words for this article. Holding one’s hands like this is somewhat common in utero. She had them next to her face and seemed about as content as could be. She often sits like that now, her chin and the sides of her face in her cupped hands when she is thinking or bored or sighing.

Parents of two-year-olds know how many times you have to grab these little hands to assist in crossing the street, or to steady the toothpaste when they demand you put more on, or to wipe off whatever pink or purple marker stash she has found her way into. I swear there could be forty-seven dry erase markers or various non-permanent writing utensils and she would sniff out the lone ranger Sharpie. “Look, Daddy!” “Oh, that’s nice. Your mom forgot to put those up didn’t she?”

One of my favorite ways that I see these little hands in action is at our dinner table. Ian took to folding his hands almost immediately after we showed him. It was just the one time of watching us and he knew how to be a part of family prayer. She makes the sign of the cross, says, “Name of Father, Son, Holy Spirit,” gives a few extra passes- which actually looks like she’s swatting bees- for good measure, and begins on her meal. I am the most proud of this, even if it sounds more like “Faddor, Shon, Hoi Spitit.” I am not the best father in the world, but I do take pride in knowing that my children know how to pray. Think of how humbling it is to see little hands folded in prayer. We need more of them around the world.

I woke up early Saturday and prayed the rosary, tidied up a bit, and then checked in on my daughter to make sure she was still asleep. She stirred slightly and mumbled something, so I laid down with her until she resettled. When I went to get up, which is like navigating a floor of laser beams in some caper where a quiet exit is the sole prize, Lucy rolled over next to me and grabbed my wrist. She has a strong grip and even though I could have gotten free, the way she was holding onto me was quite endearing. It wasn’t the blind grab that usually implies “don’t go.” It was like she was trying to get me back to sleep with just the slightest touch. In that precise moment, I was filled with love and gratefulness in that God chose me to guide this beautiful soul and make sure she knows what His love is. I laid for a bit while longer before kissing her chubby cheeks and getting up and back to my chores.

The next day at Mass, Lucy was doing an excellent job of showing everybody at St. Boniface Catholic Church why the terrible twos are called the terrible twos. Carrie is the more patient one of us, an election she won in a landslide victory I might add, but she was up to her breaking point. Kids that age are masters of evasive back arching and also making their bodies go limp so as to slide to the ground more easily. If they were not our offspring, we would let them fall to the ground and learn from trial and error. If you haven’t been there, then, well, good for you. My solution to calm Lucy down was to take her outside for a reset. Carrie, after handing her off to me like a track baton and chucking a half-open bag of Flavor Blasted Goldfish when my back was turned, was off to finally sit in a pew for longer than a six minute interval. We got outside, I sat her on the ledge of the sign out front. The height of the sign was just enough to make her simultaneously excited and nervous. It was a tactic and it worked… for three minutes. Picking flowers didn’t work either. Then she thought she needed to use the potty, which was a diversion to get a drink of water from one of the little cups in the bathroom. I had been played yet again.

Somewhere during communion preparation, we got back into the foyer and Lucy went right to the cardboard stand that has all those little books in it. “Building the Church Series” contains many great resources. She went right to the book titled “The Family in the Modern World,” walked back to my side and very pleasantly sat and read. After realizing that there weren’t as many pictures as she was hoping for, she went back to the bookcase, and as intentionally as she grabbed the first one, comes back and hands me a copy of “Becoming a Real Man of God.” You can not make this stuff up, people. Our week had been a chaotic one and I was losing my temper more frequently than normal. It was like something in her knew that we all just needed to chill out and refocus. I was brought to tears when those little hands handed me that book. Okay God. I am listening.

At some point while still working in the shed, I needed to take a break. We endured a fairly terrible and destructive storm down here in Evansville during the winter. It wiped out our fence, shed, its contents to some degree, patio table, small play set, yet thankfully missed Lucy’s bedroom window by about five feet. The experience was very humbling as we were without power for four days. We’ve had to spend the last few months burning, trashing, and raking various debris out of the way to make room for our new shed. Seated and watching the sun go down, I was pondering all of this, again grateful as there were others who fared considerably worse, when I thought of how close that tree had come. That and my glass-half-empty mentality went down a wormhole about what we would have done if something really devastating would have transpired. She may have been okay, but what if things had gone the other way?

Would I be able to handle that? I would hope that I could keep going. I would hope that I would have meaning after that. I would still be a father and husband. I would have to be there for them. I can not fathom such an eventuality, nor do I wish to continue to do so on pen and paper.

Then another thought came to me.

How could anyone ever handle something like that? It’s possible, I hear. It has happened, I have heard. You would either have to be God Himself or lean on His love to make it. Imagine loving someone so intently, so passionately, so unconditionally, that you would sacrifice every fiber of your physical and emotional and mental well-being for them. As I write this and as you will read it, a face or two will come to mind.

Imagine Mary seeing the once little hands of her dear boy pierced and bloodied by the nails on the cross. Little hands that she first saw at the Nativity. Little hands that she held tightly to keep safe. Little hands that she washed and fed. Little hands that clung to her while she tried to soothe or calm our Savior. Little hands that she saw folded in prayer.

One shudders at those same little hands being persecuted nearly thirty years later. Yet, this is precisely what Holy Week is all about. “For God so loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16. We are to emulate Christ in every way possible. With that comes sacrifice in suffering and in how we choose to spend our time on this earth. It’s not always a cakewalk, nor should it be. My priest recently said, and I am paraphrasing, “If you find that life is too easy, you're probably not doing something right.”

When it’s not easy, lean on Him and scripture. When it’s not easy, know that there are others who have gone through it. When it’s not easy, be aware that we deserve what we get, in a sense. When it’s not easy, be aware that He was pure, without blemish, and took the weight of all sin for us.

Trees will fall. There will be crying and discomfort. Possessions will come and go. Take comfort in knowing that the ultimate sacrifice has already been made and we are all worthy, through that sacrifice, of His love. That is something for which we should all fold our hands, little ones and the like.