They didn't bother me. I loved her. And I loved her hands.
They symbolized, for me, her work ethic. She worked hard all her life. Hard work wasn't just something she had to do at times, it was part of who she was. She worked and she had the heart of a servant.
Nobody who ever had us over for a meal needed to ask Faye to help, she started helping from the moment we walked in the door.
And somehow those arthritic hands was a visible sign of her love of service and work. They were hardworking hands.
How I miss being able to tell she was beautiful to me in every way.
I've been blogging less of late--partly because I'm consciously trying to get busier and use my time differently. But the foundations of my new life are getting more stable--so my mindset is changing.
And I press on.
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