My Mother’s Hands
As I was writing one morning, I found myself wondering when my mother’s strong hands had become like my own.
Ever since I fell last autumn and injured my “writing” hand, I have felt a deep gratitude for my hands.
The ability to grasp anything in reach.
The realization to let go and create anew.
My pen gave way to this poem about my mother’s hands and what they mean to me. I had the privilege of reading it to her on her birthday this past March.
In honor of my mother and our hands, I share this tribute with you. May you cherish the hands that have strengthened you.
My Mother’s Hands
Hands that hold our family together.
Hands that express love and beauty.
Hands that make one feel safe.
Hands that stroke brows to ease worry and pain.
Hands that sew, mend and iron clothes.
Hands that knead dough and bake cookies.
Hands that prune roses and plant flowers.
Hands that write words of encouragement and belief.
Hands that gather wood and build fires.
Hands that rub sore muscles and heal.
Hands that create and wrap gifts.
Honest hands. Giving hands.
Scarred hands. Working hands.
Praying hands.
Hands that have held hope and longing.
Hands that have nestled soft babies and grandsons.
Hands that have wiped tears and caressed cheeks.
Hands that have clutched heartache and loss.
Hands that have flipped burgers, canned and cooked many meals.
Hands that have worked the soil, fed animals and seeded fields.
Hands that have hung IV bags and passed instruments.
Hands that have made beds and pulled up our covers.
Hands that have strewn popcorn and decorated trees.
Hands that have washed, brushed and curled hair.
Hands that have soothed many souls.
Strong hands. Loving hands.
Holding unto dreams and faith.
A blessing to behold. The gift of my mother’s hands.
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