In August, as I tearily painted the hand of my now 18-year-old Trinity senior for one last handprint, I couldn’t help but pause. This was the same hand I once held as I dropped him off at preschool and entrusted him to Mrs. Kristina Watson and Mrs. Dawn Robbins when he was three.

Only now, that hand is enormous. At 6’6”, my college-bound athlete has hands larger than his father’s. As I painted over the deep callouses, I thought about the thousands of golf balls hit, the early mornings, the frustrations, and the countless hours of choosing to try again. 

His hand told a story of becoming capable.

I think of the little hands we hold every day in preschool. Hands that glue, cut, paint, dig, pour, create, and sometimes make a mess. Hands that reach for ours when something feels hard. Hands that are already capable of far more than we sometimes realize.

Yesterday, I asked our littlest Trinity friends, “What can your hands do?”

Their hands bounced up as they shared: build, create, carry, clean, count. Then George said, “You can help someone up.”

Yes, George, we can. Capable hands aren’t only hands that do things for ourselves. They are hands that do something for someone else.

In one of my new favorite books, Capable, Sissy Goff and David Thomas make an important distinction: “Capable has more weight than confident.” We see our Trinity friends as capable, curious, competent human beings, full of ideas, questions, and potential.

Our role isn’t simply to tell children they are capable. It is to create the conditions in which they can discover it for themselves.

Capability grows when a friend struggles with an applesauce lid and keeps trying. When she builds a tower and handles the emotions when it falls. When he spills the paint and discovers he can clean up his own mess.

These moments may be small on the outside, but something big is happening: “I did that. I can.”

As Cole offered, “My hand can hold a leash to walk our dog.” Georgia said, “My hands can hold a book while we read.” Those little hands can also carry their plate to the sink, fill water bottles, help set the table, and, as George pointed out, offer a hand when someone is down.

When we invite children to participate in the life of the family and classroom, we give them opportunities to experience belonging and contribution. We’re saying: You belong here. You have something to contribute. Your hands are capable.

Becoming capable doesn’t mean figuring everything out alone. We lend a hand up. We model, listen, slow down, and offer just enough support. Then, when the moment is right, we give the work back to the child.

Instead of “Here, let me do it,” try: “Would you like to try first?”

Instead of “That’s too hard,” try: “It is hard. What could you try?”

Instead of immediately solving a problem: “I’m right here. What do you think we could do?”

A capable child isn’t a child who never needs help. It is a child learning: I can try. I can ask for help. I can try again. I can help someone else.

Watching my son grow at Trinity for 16 school years reminds me that raising capable children isn’t something parents or teachers do alone. We do it together.

As a Reggio-inspired preschool community, we believe relationships are at the heart of learning. Parents and teachers each see things the other may not. Sharing those observations creates a fuller picture of the child.

Our partnership isn’t about having all the answers. It is about being curious together: What might this friend be ready to try? How can we support without taking over?

We are in this together, and as Wilhelmina said, I can use my hands to “clap and cheer” for that.

When I think about my son’s hand covered in blue paint, I think about George’s little hand reaching down to help someone up. One carries years of practice. The other carries the beginning of a much bigger story.

Both remind us that capability is built. And I am so grateful we get to build with you.

Perhaps the most important thing we can give a child is the experience of knowing: I am capable.

And what we can give one another is a helping hand.

HAND PRINT: JAYDEN HOFMAN ‘27   HAND: BUD SCARBOROUGH ‘40