MAMA'S HANDS
Mama, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.
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 her if she was OK.
She raised her head and looked at me and
smiled.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking,"
she said in a clear
voice strong.
"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," I explained
to her.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," she asked.
"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 well throughout your years.
These hands, though wrinkled shriveled
and weak
have been the tools 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.
They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.
They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were
uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
Decorated with my wedding
band
they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special
They
wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook
when I buried my parents and spouse.
They have held my children and grandchildren,
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 the rest
of my body.
They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.
And
to this day when not much of anything else of me works real 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 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 GOD"
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 husband I think of Mama.
I know she has been
stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God.
I, too, want to touch the
face of God and feel His hands upon my face.