Out! Brown Spot! Out!

old-hands-with-a-flower-on-the-blackToday, I washed my hand five times only to sadly realize that the spot I was trying to remove might actually be a bit more permanent than I had hoped.


Okay, this shouldn’t be a shock to me, right? I have grey hair, wrinkles around my eyes and the beginnings of arthritis in joints that were the homes of broken bones when I was a kid. I even have age spots on my face.

But my hands? I wasn’t expecting that for at least 10 more years.

There are benefits to age. I have already experienced learning to drive, living in a college dorm, finding the right guy and two childbirths (with the bonus of getting three kids!) I have bungee jumped, eaten crocodile and shark, ridden in a NASCAR car and walked a runway. I’ve made and lost friends, drank good and bad wine, loved and missed family and been hired and laid off more than I like to remember.

I should be proud. These spots are a sign of a life lived and love freely given. Of steps danced and notes sang and words written.

But even after all that, it took five washings and a serious come to Jesus moment before I could believe that these old hands were mine. Ah well, maybe this second half of life should include more wine. More wine=less worry, right?


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