My Mother’s Hands
I don’t know who wrote this, but I think it was shared with me by my mother to illustrate a point. It was 8 days after her birthday, so maybe I had read it somewhere and shared it with her, like I did this Ann Landers letter.
Mama, some ninety plus years, sat feebly in her chair. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was ok. Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked, "Are you alright, Mama?" She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," in a clear strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Mama, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,"
"Have you ever looked at your hands," she asked me softly. "I mean really looked at your hands?"
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making. Mama smiled and related this story:
"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shaky and now weak and cramped with arthritis have been the means I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child my mother taught me to fold them in prayer.
They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. Then held my books and wiped my tears when I went off to school. They shook as I first learned to play the piano then became stronger and more sure as I became better and practiced more. They have entertained many for years as well as entertaining myself during moments of memory. They have been dirty and clean, scraped and raw, swollen and hurting. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.
They were clumsy and uneasy when I tended to my first born child but got stronger and surer with each one after that. They wrote the letters and trembled and shook that I sent off to my sons in the wars but hugged each one tightly when they came home. They cooked, cleaned and planted gardens. They sewed buttons, hemmed skirts and made quilts. And counted pennies to make ends meet.
They have decorated Christmas trees and welcomed guests into my home. They trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse or saw my daughters walk down the aisle.
Yet, they were strong and sure when I cuddled and fed my grand children. They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and cracked.
And to this day when not much of anything else of me works very well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life.
But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ ."
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Mama's hands and led her home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and grand children I think of Mama. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. And I want my hands to feel the same.
I've been writing my story since I was able to write, but when the media goes to share it, they only choose the parts that fit their idea of what will generate views. If I'm going to share my story, it