I looked down at my hands today and saw my mom’s hands.
The same crooks and wrinkled skin. The same spots gradually appearing. Knuckles growing larger.
I’m not terribly sad about this, because her hands were good hands.
Her hands were kind. They sewed clothes and carried meals. They volunteered at school and made costumes. I remember her sitting on my bed and rubbing my legs when I was small because of the bad cramps – growing pains she called them – that plagued me. Her hands felt for fever and bandaged hurts. They were kind hands.
Her hands were busy. They weeded gardens and washed clothes. They refinished floors and painted walls. They moved furniture and cleaned house. They picked and shelled and canned and cooked. They cleaned the church and helped others. They were busy hands.
Her hands were talented. They fried the best pork chops in the world, and her chicken ran a close second. They could mold a biscuit light enough to float on air. They made divinity good enough to sell and fudge that never lasted long. They made doll clothes and curtains. They typed and kept records. They braided hair before it became a fashionable style. They calmed fussy children and played and made handkerchief bunnies in church. They were talented hands.
Her hands were full of love. They carried that love to her family and to her neighbors. They folded that love in prayer for others, and they ended that prayer by ministering. They were hands full of love.
Mom was not perfect, but she had such good hands.
My hands look like hers. I want that resemblance to go beyond appearance.
Colossians 3:23 And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; 24 Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ.
Galatians 5:13 For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty; only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh, but by love serve one another.
In honor of my mom’s birthday in Heaven
Photo: Autumn Colors, Beth Mims