My Mother's Hands

Recently, I caught a glimpse of my hands out of the corner of my eye, and had to do a double take. For a moment, I thought they were my mom's hands. Something about the lighting, the way I had just gestured, the shape of my fingers... In many ways, I have her hands. I would be honored if this could be said about my hands in every way...

My mother's hands are comforting.

She kissed my scraped knees when I was little, 
And wiped my tears in the weeks after Lucy's birth.

My mother's hands are generous. 
She modeled a joyfully giving spirit to me when I was young,

And has extended her generosity to my husband and daughter now that I am grown.

My mother's hands are mischievous.

School days and road trips both were often punctuated by a tickle fight, 
Producing squeals of laughter and delight from her girls.

My mother's hands are never idle.

She is industrious in both work and play,
From household chores to relaxing with a crossword.

My mother's hands are helpful.

From building sandcastles together at the beach,
To helping make my house a home,
She is willing and even eager to work alongside me in my projects.


My mother's hands are capable.
She taught me how to cook, clean, and cross-stitch,
And spent countless hours being our school teacher through the years.

My mother's hands are tender.

I am overwhelmed as I watch her gently cradle Lucy,

And get a glimpse of how she treasures her own daughters.

 

May I one day have hands as beautiful as my mother's.