To cross one's fingers is a hand gesture commonly used to wish for good luck, with roots in Christian prayers for protection by invoking the shape of the cross. The gesture is referred to by the common expression "keeping one's fingers crossed" or just "fingers crossed," meaning "let's hope for a good outcome". The gesture has also been historically used in order to allow believers to recognize one another during times of persecution.
Some people, mostly children, also use the gesture to excuse their telling of a white lie. This may have its roots in the belief that the power of the Christian cross might save one from being sent to hell for telling a lie.
This gesture is also used to express two people being close friends with the accompanying phrase, "They are like this".
Other articles related to "crossed fingers, fingers":
... in England and Wales children usually held up crossed fingers ... Sometimes crossing the fingers of both hands was required and occasionally the feet as well ... whilst in Bradford-on-Avon the hand was held up with three fingers extended ...
... In 16th century England, people crossed fingers or made the sign of the cross in order to ward off evil, as well as when people coughed or sneezed ... and Popular Superstitions by Francis Grose records the recommendation to keep one's fingers crossed until one sees a dog to avert the bad luck attracted by walking under a ladder ... In pop culture, crossing one's fingers while promising or taking an oath, signifies that the person is lying, therefore the statement, promise or oath is annuled ...
Famous quotes containing the words fingers and/or crossed:
“For the baby suckles and there is a people made of milk for her to use. There are milk trees to hiss her on. There are milk beds in which to lie and dream of a warm room. There are milk fingers to fold and unfold. There are milk bottoms that are wet and caressed and put into their cotton.”
—Anne Sexton (19281974)
“Chrome: her pretty childface smooth as steel, with eyes that would have been at home at the bottom of some deep Atlantic trench, cold gray eyes that lived under terrible pressure. They say she cooked her own cancers for people who crossed her, rococo custom variations that took years to kill you.”
—William Gibson (b. 1948)