I held my mother's hand. With the other, she fumbled with the oxygen tube at her nose and made an impatient comment referring to her 'leash.' Tonight, I wondered if she resented this lifeline--not as an inconvenience--but as a tether to an earthly existence that has become wearisome for her.
We chatted of daily things, of news from relatives, and of the weather. I recounted a humorous conversation with my daughter. She laughed. Her eyes told me she was happily engaged in our conversation. I looked down at the frail hand--surprised by the strength at which it grasped mine. It reminded me of a story I read recently about hands. I placed my other hand over hers as if to protect it. Its thin covering, like parchment, revealed blue veins and intricate bone structure. The fingers are misshapen from arthritis and years of hard work. These are such small hands to have done so much for so long a time.
These hard working hands bathed babies and emptied bed pans for patients in a hospital during WWII. They ran a manually operated elevator in an office building and packed fruit from an orchard. Later, those same strong hands helped her husband run a family farm. They pumped water for livestock, planted and weeded gardens, and canned the produce.
Efficient hands lovingly cared for her family's needs. Skilled hands cooked and baked until the kitchen was filled with mouthwatering aromas. Nimble fingers pinned dazzling white shirts on a clothesline for her husband's new political career. Gentle hands rocked babies and fluffed pillows of sick children. Firm hands disciplined but were swift to wipe away tears and give hugs. And even after more than six decades of marriage, these hands still care for her husband.
Creative hands wrote notebooks full of poetry. They embroidered beautiful linens and pictures, sewed doll clothes, and styled the neighbor ladies' hair.
Hospitable hands welcomed friends and family. Compassionate hands held the hands of others throughout grief and hardship.
Sometimes, these hands expressed frustration. A line from one of my mother's poems described a less than perfect cake decorating attempt, “My palsied fist I can't control, while listening to rock and roll.”* Another time, a cake came from the oven full and fluffy but within minutes deflated to a lopsided, clay-like mound. Determined hands painstakingly tried to mask the flaw with frosting until patience reached an abrupt end. Angered hands dove into the gooey mass with vengeance, pulverizing that culinary disappointment. Within seconds, hands dripping with evidence of cake mutilization hung limply over their victim while my mother's horrified expression sent me into peals of laughter. And then those same hands calmly cleaned everything and began the cake baking process again—guilty hands doing penance.
Most importantly, these hands folded in prayer. Daily, my mother brought concerns for her family to the Lord. With her earthly hands, she offered tangible help in any way she could.
I was a teenager when Mom began to examine her hands and say, “My hands look like my mother's. I used to watch her sew on her treadle machine for hours. She had arthritis bumps on this finger, too. Poor Mama. She had a hard life.”
My mother once held my grandmother’s hands the way I now hold hers. I glanced down at my own hands. In that instant, I saw my mother’s hands at my age and I thought, “My hands look like hers. Poor Mom, she had a hard life.” Then I wondered if my daughter would hold my hands like this some day and think these thoughts.
Soon--much sooner than I want to contemplate--there will be another pair of hands that will hold my mother’s. His hands will dry all her tears and take away her pain. He will reward her for the work of her hands here on earth.
Until then, I will hold these precious hands.
* Excerpt from a poem by author's mother
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.