My parents taught us hands were made for working. And when we worked, we worked together. Sometimes we made beautiful things; sometimes we worked on things that just needed to be done. But whatever it was, I never saw my mother or father hire a plumber or contractor, painter or landscaper. We did everything with our own hands. We painted walls, held ladders so my father could scale too-high places, pushed wheelbarrows, learned to grout and lay tile. Our small hands worked alongside theirs. When I think of all the important things my parents have taught my siblings and me over the years, this is the one I always come back to: hands are made for working. The older Jane and Henry grow, the more I love watching them develop a relationship with their hands. Holding, building, digging, gripping, never too young to realize the strength, flexibility, and thoughtfulness embedded in each small finger, direct extensions of their soul.