Saturday, September 19, 2015

A Woman's Hands

My faith and spirituality were shaped, like most of us, by a family member when I was growing up. My grandfather was a pastor at what would now be considered a Fundamentalist church. I had never thought of it that way until someone in Montana defined it for me. Honestly, it came as kind of a shock. There were a lot of what I perceive as extremes as I was growing up, and my grandfather was always on the positive end of that spectrum. He was my rock in a shifting, baseless world. My grandfather died when I was thirteen, and I have to say it was the worst pain I have ever experienced. I can only hope that even though I am not a Fundamentalist, and not even a Christian by most of today's standards, that he would still be proud of me and all that I am and have done.

Never a woman’s hands

always a man’s
and always old
never in youth
when there is the greatest need
but the least doubt.

They were in the houses
I visited as a child,
the ones with my
grandfather, his hat,
and his Bible.

The houses with my mother
were loud and full of people
in various stages of inebriation
a contrast to the devout
places with those hands in them.

Those hands spoke of time
out away from the 
cares and worries of man,
and those houses never had
drunks or yelling or
children in need of places
of hiding.

I do not have those hands
in my house. They grew to
symbolize my doubt and anger
at those with the hands
not caring about those without.

© all rights reserved Julie Reeser

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