When we put a call out for stories about pinkies (or other body parts that OnePinky members love), there were some amazing responses. Below, Lorraine shares her story about her hands.

My grammy’s birth is family legend. Born in mid-May 1913, she was unexpected, too early, put in the springhouse as she was thought to be dead, and rescued by an eight-year-old brother who was convinced she was not. He walked several miles in the dark to the nearest doctor without the knowledge of his parents. She lived! Her three hulking teenaged brothers were quoted for years as saying that, “Mary was so small when she was born, she could fit in a teacup.” Taken by her brothers in a pony cart to a wet nurse several times each day, the tiny scrap of humanity they called Mariel, or Mary, did more than survive. She grew up and made a difference.

Always very petite, my grammy lived to have an enormous progeny of close to two hundred, beginning with her own six children. Even so, I grew up secretly feeling, no, knowing, that I was Grammy’s favorite. I now strongly suspect that I was not the only grandchild to feel this way, such was her effect on others. Still, I know I was very special to her. More important was the influence she had in my life. Through my poor self-image I could feel her love and acceptance, telling me on some level that I was worthy of being loved.

At the blustery turn of October to November two years ago, I had the rare opportunity to be alone for about an hour with my grammy as she worked through the transition from this world into the next, giving Mom and my aunts a much needed break. I softly sang to her, holding her delicate, bird-boned little hand in mine. She slept, and I remembered. Her hands, always busy, always loving, always creating something beautiful. The feel of her hands on my face with her voice telling me I was beautiful (a miracle, for in those moments I believed). As a child watching her hands show me how to deftly roll crushed rose petals into beads for a necklace – I still have them. My heart swelling with love years later as I deciphered her arthritic, spidery scrawl, knowing the sacrifice it took to write me a love note with her shrunken, gnarled fingers. Mom and the aunts came back. The next morning the call came, “Grammy’s gone home, honey.” I could still feel her hand in mine.

I’ve never considered my hands pretty, only useful. Around women with slender hands and long, tapered fingers and perfect fingernails, I tend to curl my hands into balls and hide them in my lap. I’m looking at my hands now with new eyes. I’ve never asked, but I’ll bet my husband and children think my hands are beautiful, like I thought my grammy’s were. My hands have gently bathed babies, washed clothes, wiped tears, fixed owies, braided hair, sewn birthday dresses and countless missing buttons, cradled faces, given massages. They have dug in the soil, planted seeds, tended seedlings, picked vegetables, and made countless delicious soups from the harvest. My hands have waved goodbye, hugged hello, given thumbs-up “good job!” praise, clapped enthusiastically at concerts, track meets, and graduations. They have intertwined with the hands of my sweetheart and soothed many a day’s cares away with loving, gentle touch. My hands have served those I love my whole life. They have never let me down.

I love my hands. I will never hide them again.

Do you have a pinky story, or a favorite thing about yourself today? Be sure to share!