I’m blessed to be married to a blue-collar man—he carries our burdens and worries on strong shoulders and our hopes and dreams in his hard-working hands.
Those hands keep the bills paid and a roof over our heads, but it doesn’t come without sacrifice—long days gone, mud on my floors, sawdust in pockets, and grit and grime in my sink, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He’s living his dream, and I’m cheering him on, doing my best to hold down the fort we call home.
Beaten and battered, scarred and weathered, these hands are still gentle enough to hold a newborn baby and wipe away my tears as I go through the life-shattering grief of losing my dad.
To say I’m thankful for everything my husband does and every day of work he pursues out in the heat and the cold is an understatement.
The hands of a working man are to be loved and appreciated.
Some days I forget, wrapped up in my own struggles and exhaustion of being a mom with a job and laundry and cooking and cleaning, that I forget the look of tiredness when my husband rises early and comes home late, and I forget how hard those hands have worked to support our growing family and make the dreams of our life come true.
But I’ll always remember the day we got married, my small hand in his as we vowed to be partners for the rest of our lives and lift each other up, to support each other as best we can.
The hands of this working man have done just that.