I never really thought my hands were my best feature. I have big hands for a woman, and they are always chapped, and rough looking, and I have the worst hangnails ever. These hands are the hands of a firm handshake and a look in the eye. These hands can paint, sew, embroider and knit. These hands can cook, clean, mow, rake and shovel. These hands know just where to scratch the dog, the cat, a horse or a calf. These hands are the hands of a teacher, frequent handwashing with the harshest soap, but the hands that caringly take a kindergartener’s frightened and small hand, that gently take a tantruming child’s hand to lead them to a calmer place, that go on the shoulder of a troubled youngster showing concern and offering a kind word. These hands touch my daughers face, a pat on her hand or rub her back, loving – or a whack on the leg and a flick of the finger, teasing. These hands are hard working, these hands are generous, kind, loving and good. Today these hands of mine look beautiful.