My parents never hit me. I can’t remember a time when they ever raised their voice and yelled at me. I’ve never seen them fight. There was conflict and frustration, misunderstandings and disagreements. But my parents never hit me. Never raised a hand to strike in anger. I never felt the fear that causes a kid to cower. My dad was tall and strong and had a presence that commanded obedience. But never, not even once, did he hit me. His hands were ones that held mine as we took Sunday afternoon walks through the woods. Hands that tucked my covers tightly around me when I went to bed. His hands picked me up when I fell off my bike. Hands that crafted tree houses and doll furniture and security. My mom had a quiet spirit; calm and consistent. Her hands were ones that cooked dinner for the family. Hands that held me close when I was sick. Her hands created art and color and beauty. Their hands never brought me fear.
But some kids don’t have that. Some kids fear the palm and fist and backhand. Some kids are all too familiar with the sting of hands against their face, hands striking their body, hands causing pain. They haven’t experienced yet a hand that feeds and heals and offers comfort. When they misbehave, they face abuse. When they play too loudly, they are hit. When they stutter their words and can’t speak right, they are met with ridicule and unkind words. When they argue they are taken by the shoulders and shoved against the wall. Some kids cower if you move too quickly toward them. Fear burns in their eyes where joy and childhood are supposed to shine.
When a child learns to fear the hand, to shy away from it, to associate it with abuse, their brains are rewired to use their hands the same way they were taught. Where naturally humans are prone to protect themselves, children of abuse may find their own hands as one of their greatest enemies. They use their hands to fight others, to destroy what’s around them, to tear people down. For the past sixteen days I have watched two pairs of hands very closely and through their movements I get a picture of what life must’ve been like for these two incredibly special but incredibly broken kids.
Little Girl came to me with several diagnosis, including oppositional defiance disorder. Until recently I only got small snapshots of what that looks like. She would be whiney, pouty, complain about simple tasks. She’s refused to eat her dinner and complain when she had to clean up. It’s all been minor stuff. But the past few days whenever she was issued a command she did not agree with her automatic response has been to ball up her fists and hit her forehead as hard as she can. Not just once or twice, but over and over. At one point she was banging her head against the wall telling herself how much trouble she was in, how worthless she was. Tonight was yelling and screaming and “I f—-ing hate this place!” Lots of tears. Lots of anger. And I watched those hands move and attack that precious face and pull at that beautiful blond hair. I watched fist ball up and ached inside as I saw them hurt her body. The abused has become the abuser…to herself.
So I took those hands that haven’t been taught. I opened them into mine. I stroked her hands. I held her cold fingers softly in my palm. My hands are such imperfect examples, but I held hers gently until she calmed. And as I held hands trained for battle, always in attack mode, I whispered truth into her ears. “You are precious. You are love. You are deeply valuable. You never deserve to be hit.” Her body loosens up, she stops crying, and she allows me to hold her.
Tonight as I sit here, ashamed to admit I do not always respond with grace, I think of another pair of hands that I want to train my own. The hands nail-scarred and calloused, hands that healed the sick and blind. Hands that raised the dead. Hands that touched children and blessed them. I want hands like those. I want to help my foster kids to rewire their brain so their hands are no longer clinched, ready to fight. I want to help them see the healing that can come when we use our hands for good. Hands to clap and praise for a job well done. Hands to hold when you cross the street. Hands to wipe away the tears. I want them to learn what hands were truly made for. Not for hitting or hurting but for healing and for hope.
Beautifully written. Thank you.
You have such a way with words. Thank you for all you do for those kids, and for sharing your words with us.