Offering A Hand
I have three scars on my right hand.
As fair warning, you should know that if an essay or blog post begins with the sentence “I have three scars on my right hand” there is a fairly good chance that some gory details will follow. I’m just saying.
The most prominent of the three is at the base of my thumb in that soft bulgy area called the thenar eminence. I once shot a 10 penny nail from a pneumatic nail gun through that spot. Of course, I can say it was an accident, but that would suggest there was some random misfortune that caused it instead of my own stupidity. I didn’t plan on firing a 3” metal spike through my hand at 134 feet per second. But I didn’t take the necessary steps to prevent it either. So calling it an accident seems a little too generous.
I was building a house at the time. It was the second of three that I have either constructed from the ground up or renovated over the years. Although I don’t own or live in any of them anymore, that scar is a reminder that I built a few things in my life that are beautiful; things that will still exist and hopefully give joy and inspiration to others long after I am gone.
My second scar is just above the radial longitudinal crease; the area between my thumb and index finger. For all you palm readers out there, it runs along my lifeline, which seems appropriate given how I got it.
In college, I was a bartender at a somewhat shady neighborhood tavern not far from campus. The place was a dive by most standards, but it would get a lot of locals and graduate students who preferred to get away from the more popular drinking spots that were crammed with undergrads on weekends. That made for an interesting mix of personalities which led to an even more interesting mix of discussions fueled entirely by large quantities of alcohol.
One night, a very drunk girl came in looking for “THAT WHORE WHO STOLE MY BOYFRIEND!” After spotting her target sitting at the bar with friends, the girl pulled out a butcher knife and headed in our direction with a clear look of purpose on her face. In the only Batman moment of my life, I jumped across the bar and tried to grab Miss Congeniality’s arm but ended up grabbing the knife by the blade instead. I didn’t notice the deep gash in my palm until all the excitement had died down and someone suggested I go to the hospital. When I wiped away the blood and could see a bone inside my hand, I agreed it was probably a good idea.
In the end, there was no trial and no one went to jail. The District Attorney took into consideration both the emotions and the Vodka that led to the incident and the girl was sentenced to community service. I look at that scar and like to think of the two lives it may have saved.
The third scar is the smallest, but the most significant of them all. I got it when I caught my finger between the chain and the chain wheel of my son’s bike while trying to make a repair. This one is not like the others. It's more of a puncture in my skin that is harder to see the older I get and the more weathered my hands become. I don't like that it's disappearing because of all the scars I’ve developed in my life, that one I wear most proudly.
In most cultures there are visual symbols of marriage-couples in Western nations wear wedding rings, Tibetan women wear aprons, Amish men wear beards, Hindu women wear bindis. But no markers are necessary when proving to the world that you are a parent. Just look at our hands and notice the scars. They may be small and faded, but they are there. They were created by a lifetime of picking up and laying down, of holding hands, changing diapers, trying shoes, doctoring knees, blowing noses, wiping tears, giving hugs, scrubbing dirt, cleaning rooms, doing laundry, making sandwiches, and repairing bicycles.
My son is all grown up now and on his own. He doesn't need my hands the way he used to but knows they are always here for him if and when he ever does.
We spend so much time focused on our brain, on trying to be smart, and insightful, and profound in our thinking. We forget how much joy we have gotten from our hands when we use them to build things, to protect others, to help those who can't always help themselves, and to show love.
Our hands are made for doing things and maybe we need more of that these days. Less talking. Less tweeting. Less posting. Less opining. More doing. More hands. More scars.
They will be reminders to us that we actually made a difference.