These Hands of Mine

These hands.  I used to have pretty hands, I was told once.  Office job hands, manicured with polish and nary a callous.  Hands that for years played piano daily, agile and limber, soft to the touch, not rough and hardened.

Today these hands tell a different story.  They have learned to be strong with a gentle touch, learned how to feel the most intricate parts and pieces of equipment and tools, learned the feeling of the onset of mastitis in an udder while milking, to feel a fever through the touch of an ear, how to gently massage pain away, the ability to grasp a 50-pound bag of feed or a 50-pound trace mineral block, and the indescribable feeling of an unborn calf still in its mother's womb.  And yet today, these hands completed a task they had never yet before done.

Today these hands reached for heaven as I prayed for wisdom with all my strength.  The wisdom to understand my animals.  Their feelings, their pains, their happiness, the reason for their actions.  And I believe I was granted that request.  Today, my hands completed the task that I knew must be done from that wisdom.  Today, my Abigail told me through that wisdom that it was okay.  She was tired.  And hurting.  And as she placed her head in these hands of mine, I felt her blessing to complete the task that I knew must come.  And in that moment, these calloused hands with their cracks and roughness became the soft hands of a mother soothing her child.  And as the task at hand was completed, these rough hands of mine held her head for the last time as she slipped quietly away.

Rest in Peace, my precious Abigail.