The Lifting Up of My Hands

Tomorrow morning at 5:30 a.m. my mother, Janel, is having carpel tunnel surgery on her hands.  Yes, I know, these are her feet, not her hands. Pretty good looking arent' they?

The procedure is straightforward, a ligament is arthroscopically severed and this releases pressure on the nerves in the carpel tunnel.  She is pretty much at ease with the idea, especially because my grandfather and several other master gardeners she knows have done this with great success.

To a pianist this is a nightmare. I can't even think about it.  I would do anything in my power to avoid hand surgery. I've spent so many years working on my technique to make sure that I don't over-tax my wrists and I try to teach my students to use their best alignment and gravity to avoid it as well.

I'm not saying that I don't approve her doing this--gardening is not playing piano and she is obviously older than me and fully capable of deciding these things on her own.  Also, chronic pain is nothing to scoff at, especially in your hands and I pray that she has 100% success.

But, it makes me think about hands.  Again. In April 2007 my dad got his hand in a circular saw.  I got the phone call after our spring piano recital and I hopped on a flight, rented a car and met my mom and sister in the Iowa City emergency room waiting area.  The whole way I was praying.  I had Barb's soprano voice in my head singing Marty Haugen's Holden Evening Prayer:

Let my prayer rise up
Like incense before you
The lifting up of my hands
As an offering to you
Oh God, I call to you
Come to me now
Oh hear my voice
as I cry to you

I thought about my Dad's hands.  It occurred to me they were his primary means of displaying affection.  He wasn't lovey-dovey with words. He did things. With his hands. He fixed things and built things and moved things and took care of things--all with his hands.

The surgeon was amazing. He gave us the report long after midnight in the ER.  (God bless these surgeons who just drop everything and perform surgery all night to save some stranger's hand.) He thought he had successfully connected arteries, tendons and and nerves to all four fingers of Daddy's hand.  He hoped they would all survive but he made no promises. The fingers did survive--and Daddy had full use of his hand and feeling in all four fingers. The surgeon later told us that he didn't think they had a chance but he reconnected them anyway.  I give complete credit to the hearer of Marty's prayer.

Of course there are other miraculous healings I would trade that one for, but we don't get to choose our miracles. It takes some working through to remember that there even were miracles.

My mother uses her hands for service too. I was looking at them on the plane ride home from our trip.  They are strong and tan and have little scars here and there from rose thorns and time.  Little burns from grabbing pies from the oven. They look like my grandpa's farmer hands. On Saturday she helped me take down all my outdoor winter decorations.  Some folks around here think the pre-advent greenery and lights need to come down during lent. I guess I agree, I just hadn't got to it. Who knew it would be seventy degrees when we got home? That's what she does-she sees something that needs to be done and does it. With her hands.  Mommy, here's to a successful surgery and full strength and speedy recovery!

It's not going to take a miracle to fix my mother's hand tomorrow, but I'm gonna sing the song anyway.

The lifting up of my hands. . . as an offering to you.