These Hands carry the memory of the day they first clashed in the suburbs of 1970’s Chicago. Sparks flew between this redheaded teenager and her assistant manager—but not the good kind. Her hands were full of spunk and committed to Friday night plans when they left tasks incomplete; his were cupped around the responsibility of climbing the corporate ladder. She was fired, he plead the case for her return. Eventually, though, his hands reached for hers and in 1981, they bonded to one another forever with a vow.
His hands offered financial support, hers practical, daily tasks, each in greater service to raising two daughters. Each sacrificing in their own way. Grief is etched into their palms for lost time and memories missed out on. But today they have a grasp on more time, and enjoy filling it with family get-togethers and memorable experiences.
Forty marital years have washed over them, smoothing out rough edges. Tempers once flared from their fingertips, but now These Hands cusp to collect the sparks and keep them from burning; patience within their reach. His hands are devoted to service with a Deacon’s touch, hers to hospitality with a knack for entertaining. They rally tennis balls and affectionate jokes back and forth; swift and steady strokes of teamwork, mutually devoted to a win. But the score never changes: love-all. For their mutual love has remained through it all.
They have carried luggage through European countries and travelled various seasons of life with one another. They have shared countless happy hour toasts together. These Hands would be lonely and unhappy without the touch of the other. But above all, they are overflowing with pride for who their daughters have become and the children they now raise.
These are the hands of the Deacon and the Redhead.