Honor her for all that her hands have done,
and let her works bring her praise at the city gate. Psalm 31:31 NIV
My Momma’s hands… well at least they look like her hands. I noticed them this past weekend when I was folding bulletins at the church. All of a sudden these hands on the bulletins flashed me back in time to the 70s. I remember clearly standing in a small office in Calhoun, KY beside my mother. It was Saturday night and we were folding bulletins. Just around the corner, the light was on in my Daddy’s office and he was going over his sermon. My brother Bud was running in and out of the office begging us all to please finish up fast so we could go to the Tastee Freeze for ice cream.
Even now just writing about this my eyes fill up with tears as I realize the beauty of my mother’s hands—and now as I look down I realize I have her hands. My cute little sister’s hands are too big to look like Momma’s… of course my brothers’ hands are way off the mark… truly the one thing I can claim that I received from my mother that are only mine are her hands. These are the hands that directed me as the angel in the Christmas program and as the hobo in the 4-H talent show. These are the hands that held my hands even through the teenage years when at times I just wanted to jerk away in rebellion. Her hands are the hands that held back my hair as I ran to the bathroom with an upset stomach on my prom night “upchucking” my dinner. Her hands are the hands that patted my hands when I was in the hospital giving birth to my sweet Davis. Her hands are the hands that stroked her Mother’s hair as she passed into Heaven. Her hands are the hands that have given hope to Haitians and held pressure on the wounds of the injured. Her hands are amazing. Her hands are the hands that baptized my son. And…until this past weekend, I really thought they were two of a kind.
Probably the most important thing I can tell you about my Mother’s hands is that they were always open to those around her—and they still are. As I watch her ever so patiently taking care of my Dad, I realize her beautiful hands are just as lovely as when I was a child. I hope my hands can bear the same testimony.
Yes, I know I don’t really have her hands—but maybe just as my hands resemble hers that possibly my heart resembles hers as well. Her heart is that of Jesus. I will always be thankful that my Mother took time to tell me the story of Jesus, to write on my heart the Word of God, and to hold my hand through the good and the bad.
