My love. His hands. So strong and skilled, yet so tender and gentle. His work requires such precision from his hands, they endure many bangs and bumps, and they’re often blackened with the dirt of the job. But despite all of it, my husband’s hands are never anything but tender with me. Wiping away my tears after a long day. Grabbing my waist at the kitchen sink. Cupping my cheeks as he gives me a look filled with such love.
I would read about men with hands like that. I always thought it was so romantic when a man worked with his strong hands and yet used those same hands so tenderly with his wife. I wondered what it would be like to be that woman who was loved by the man with the strong, yet tender hands. And then God gave me a man like that. And I was that woman.
And it’s better than I ever dreamed.