In the final quarter of 2025, I took matters into my own hands and had hand surgery: my right one in September and its left mate in December.

It’s worked out well, as I continue to heal and dodge family and friends’ unsolicited comments about their own surgeries and regrets.

I blew shofar for the high holidays with one hand, listened and prayed without holding a prayer book for a while and tried to smile politely when jokes of my “boxing” exploits were described to get laughs among any group who would listen.

But when I finally got back to typing on my computer for an essay such as this, I realized that I gravitate to language from our liturgy about “our hands” as symbols of service, blessing and gratitude.

I quote passages here, marked in bold type, from Mishkan T’Filah, a........

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