We are in the truck headed to my brother and sister-in-law’s house for dinner when my phone rings. I look down and see my son's name on the screen. “It’s Brady,” I say nervously to Brent before I answer.
“My car won’t start, so I’ll have to ride with you guys I guess,” Brady states matter of factly but I can hear the frustration in his tone. I can’t say I blame him either, this car has been nothing but trouble since the day we bought it about a week ago. It has been towed twice and worked on in our driveway at least that many times. I inform Brent of the issue and we turn around to give Brady my car keys so he can still drive himself instead of squeezing between his little brother and sister in the back seat.
We cut the family visit short, all of us preoccupied with thoughts of another problem with his car. Less than two hours later, I wander into the garage to see Brady, bundled in layers with his hood pulled tight, standing on the driver's side of the vehicle. He is bent over under the hood, listening to Brent explain something. Brent is shoulder-deep somewhere near the engine.1
“Do you guys need anything?” I ask. The cold has me shivering.
They both look toward me and answer in unison, “We’re good for now.”
I check on them several more times, delivering food and drinks, sustenance for another long night.
When they roam into the kitchen, dirty and tired, three hours later, they are smiling. The car is running. I glance at Brent’s face and inform him that he is in desperate need of a shower. He laughs and rolls up his sleeves, showing both arms covered in the same black that envelops his face. I gape at his right arm. His hand is engulfed in scratches, his skin is rubbed raw and bleeding slightly below his elbow, and his entire upper arm is forming one giant bruise.
“Oh my gosh!” is all I manage to remark.
He just shrugs and says, “Of course the part couldn’t be an easy one to access, but it wasn’t too bad to fix.”
//
I’ve been in the kitchen for a few minutes tidying up when my husband putters in to fill his water bottle and make his way downstairs to bed.
“If I die and someone who doesn’t know me asks about all the scars on my hands, tell them something cool. Tell them that I was a MMA fighter or I fought off a tiger or something,” Brent says.
I turn toward him, angling my back to the dishes piled in the sink. I catch him gazing at the scratches on his hands while I notice that the bruise on his right arm that travels from his inner elbow up to his shoulder is deepening in hues of purple and blue.
“I don’t know,” I ponder out loud. “I think the real stories of your scratches and scars are better. Plus, a tiger, really babe?”
Still studying his hands, he chuckles, grabs his water bottle, and heads downstairs to climb into bed while I finish loading the dishwasher. I turn the water back on and begin the monotonous task of rinsing and loading the dishes. I just have a few glasses left to stack before I join him.
After I’ve finished tidying the kitchen and join him in bed, I lay there, thinking about the comment he made about his hands and the scars they bear.
I love my husband's hands. They are rough, they are strong. They are the hands of a man who has spent many years using them. They are the hands that serve our family in so many ways, every single day.
His hands are the hands that rest on the center console and hold mine every time we are in the car together.
His hands work on the vehicles belonging to most of our family.
His hands have made many meals and washed many dishes.
His hands hold me tight when I cry.
His hands have snaked out our pipes. They’ve fixed pantry shelves and thrown out too many mouse traps.2
His hands have assembled countless bookshelves, LEGO creations, and doll houses.
They have held back our daughter’s hair while she puked from the stomach flu.
His hands have pulled her hair up in the perfect Dad Pony ™.
They have been thrown proudly into the air as he cheered with our daughter, Zoey on the sidelines of a football game.
His hands are the hands that built Zoey’s first twin bed frame and the desk I sit at daily to edit photos in our bedroom.
They taught Brady how to skate, and then how to play hockey.
They coached T-Ball.
His hands are teaching Easton how to golf.
They have thrown innumerable footballs in the yard with our middle son.
His hands chop wood and build backyard fires for s’mores.
His hands play games like Skip-Bo and Mario Kart regularly.
His hands make our lives richer.
Every scar, every scratch, and every callous tells a story about the man my husband is. The man we proudly call ours.
I think he was shoulder deep somewhere near the engine. There’s a lot happening under the hood of a car, and your guess is probably as good as mine.
My least favorite part of living in the woods. Those mice are sneaky little turds, and I’m sorry if this bothers you but I’m a ruthless killer when it comes to them.
I loved how this turned out so much! Such a beautiful tribute to your husband ❤️
Love this. My husband’s hands are similar-cracked and scarred and work-worn, but my favorite newborn photos of each of ours kids are of his battered hands cradling their tiny, unblemished feet.