beautiful hands

Her nails are perfectly manicured.  Not even the slightest chip of nail-polish.  Even if you were to put them under a micro-scope, you wouldn't be able to find a single imperfection.  Her hands appear young, soft and supple.  They're beautiful, I say to myself.

I glance down at my own hands and I can't even remember the last time I looked at them.  Like really looked at them.  They are dry and cracked.  My nails look like they've been through the war.  They are uneven, unpolished, and completely unkempt.  And bare as the day I was born.  These nails haven't seen a flash of color since before my daughter was born.  Over a year ago.

Jealously begins to seethe from within.

My mind is then taken off the message of the Pastor, in order for my sin-driven soul to have time to focus on her appearance.  I carefully scan her from top to bottom and notice that everything about her is perfectly manicured.  Hair.  Clothes.  Makeup.  Her perfect shoes.  Man, those are some perfect shoes.  Even her eyebrows.  Not a single stray-hair.  Is that even possible?, I ask myself.


My mind flashes back to my college days:
I would have hours to spend between classes.  Sometimes I'd fancy a nap.  Or [maybe] decide to [catch-up] on some [over-due] homework.  But then there was the [more than occasional] "self-mani".  Sweet bliss.  I'd soak my hands, push back the cuticles, file, buff, shine, lotion, apply base-coat, paint them with some magnificent-mind-blowing color, finish with a top-coat, and what ever else I could do to make them appear absolutely beautiful.  And they would be.  When finished, I would sit back and admire my work.  As if I was some world-renown artist contemplating his newest masterpiece.  Sweet time to take care of myself over and above the call of duty.

And to think, that during that phase of my life, I was "stressed" out.

Ha.  Time?  Who has that anymore?  I have a toddler, now.  I can't even urinate in peace.  Even my attempt to preserve that simple pleasure as "mommy-time" can ensue a tsunami-like tantrum from within my daughter.  What do you mean I can't sit on your lap at this very moment?, she thinks.


I glance back over to the woman who I can easily envision on the cover of some fashion magazine.  Yup, she's perfect.  And I can guarantee she doesn't have any kids.  Figures.  She has no idea how blessed she is.


Little do I know, she's been struggling to conceive for over 2 years.  Everything she's tried, everything she's done has lead to failure.  Her nights are filled with grief as she's forced to listen to the silence of her thoughts and loving a person she's never met.  Her pillow is stained with tears.  All the crying has dried her up.  Emotionally, physically, and spiritually.  She's able to post-pone the crippling pain by filling her days with shopping.  Taking care of herself is a two-fold mission...it gives her something to do by distracting her from her reality...as well as cover up the exhaustion as she struggles to hold it together for one more day.  Lately, to live is to die.

She glances over at the dry and cracked hands.  They look like they've been through the war.  Her nails are uneven, unpolished, and completely unkempt.   I can tell she has kids, she says to herself, because her hands are beautiful...