why wrinkles are beautiful

I noticed the smooth skin of my daughter’s hands.

Cringing, I gazed at my own, marveling that they used to be just like hers. Without wrinkles, spots.

The hands of youth, unmarred by time and experience. Vanity sucked me in, and I peered closer with disdain.

Another set of hands, 40 years older. Hands of beauty and grace.

What is good about wrinkles?

These hands, oh, the tenderness of these hands! The hands of my grandmother. A testimony of life lived.

They are experienced.

Fingers that have caressed children, tended to those with needs, worked to provide, held tightly when storms threatened to drown.

These hands have been my anchor many times, holding tightly when I threatened to sail away into my own storms.

They have prayed me into safety, held me tight in my needs.

Let me go when the time came.

I looked at my own hands with renewed appreciation. For mine too have offered me everything.

Strong and sensory soldiers, lined up five at a time. How beautiful those lines are.

Reminders of a life well lived.

I think of aging hands, and clasp mine together with gratitude.

Constant companions, loyal and hard-working.

The tools that allow our inner beauty to be lived out, tangible.