Hands on the Altar

A couple months ago, Brice and I were kneeling in the temple performing sealings for the dead.* As part of the ordinance, we hold hands, and sometimes another individual joins in to take the part of a child being sealed to his/her parents. I am drawn to those other hands. They are always unique. Men tend to have shorter, rougher nails—and for some reason, flatter ones too. The women often wear jewelry, have their nails manicured. Some hands are old and covered in soft wrinkled folds, dark spots sprinkling their skin. Some are young, firm, waiting for age to change them. All are beautiful in different ways. I always imagine the stories those hands tell, but I never have the chance to know them. Where did he get that scar? Who gave her the ring she wears? Is he a violinist or a pianist? I like to imagine who these people might be, based on their hands.

This time, though, it was Brice’s hand I studied. I knew some of its story. I remember the first time I saw him when he’d returned from his mission. We’d written the whole time, usually about once a week (I’ve never, before or since, been such a faithful correspondent). No promises were exchanged; no future plans were made. We just wrote. And I waited and wondered and hoped. I remember arriving at his house after he’d returned from the airport. I remember walking into his kitchen, full of nervous excitement. He was not yet released from his calling, and the moment was beyond awkward. I remember… a handshake. It was just a handshake, but for me the earth shook too. I wanted to keep holding on until my heart stopped quaking, which would take approximately forever.

I knew the stories of our dating years too. I remember the first time he held my hand, how it seemed to act of its own volition, tightening around his fingers in a perfect instinctive response. And then how I proceeded to sweat and tremble nervously until the natural was taken from my grasp and all that was left was the awkward. But still we held on. I remember the way, years later, his hand fumbled in his trench coat pocket, searching for a ring box. My heart raced, knowing what was coming, as he knelt in the drizzling rain. I remember how, seven years ago, we were kneeling across from each other to be sealed and how silly-giddy I felt when afterward I couldn’t fit his wedding band over the knuckle of his left forefinger; he had to do it himself.

And here we were again, and his hands are just as marvelous as they were then. A little different, though. On his left hand is still that wedding band, but it sports a killer tan line beneath it. His right holds my hand, steadier, more confident. I’ve seen now that it is gentle enough to pat a screaming child into happiness. Strong enough to pick up another screaming child and hold her close. It has a few new, assorted patches of vitiligo. Maybe a little more tan. A pea-sized scar on his pinkie where he scraped off a chunk of skin during the installation of a stove in our first condo. Invisible things like the countless baby diapers he’s changed or the efforts spent in clipping little baby fingernails or the times he stroked my hair while I cried.

I could read our history together on those hands.

What will they be like ten years from now? Fifteen, twenty, forty? What stories will they tell? I am sure they will say more of service and love and generosity than I could ever put into words. I hope they will speak more of joy and my love for him. I know they will still fit perfectly with mine.

Happy anniversary, love!

*Sealings are an ordinance that members of the The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints perform in their holy temples. We can be sealed into an eternal marriage and family when we are married, and we also perform this work for the dead to give people who have already died the same opportunity. If you have other questions, see http://mormon.org/church.