My Mother's Hands

Almost from the time a baby is born, family members will often try to determine which characteristics of the child should be attributed to what side of the family. "She has her mother's eyes." "He has his father's smile." "She's stubborn, just like Great Aunt Lulu." Over the years I have been told that I am a pretty even mix of my parents. Sometimes this is a compliment, other times it is a great source of frustration! There have been many mornings I have looked in the mirror and saw my mother's face looking back at me. Creepy!

Lately I have been thinking about one area of striking resemblance...I have my mother's hands. My fingers are a tad bit longer than hers were, otherwise they are very similar. Fingernails, knuckles, even the lines in my palms are almost the same. My mother passed away 18 years ago, but I can still vividly recall her hands.

When I was very young, my mother would entertain me during a long church service by drawing pictures for me on the back of the church bulletin. She would often start by drawing a house, complete with landscaping and puffs of smoke rising from the chimney. She would trace around my hand and then let me trace around hers. Then we would decorate our "hands" with elaborate jewelry and small pictures on the fingernails. I thought that my mom was the most wonderful artist in the whole world! She probably didn't give much thought to what she was doing. She was just happy I was being quiet during church.

I am now the age that my mother was when I was small. So when I look at my hands and see how they are ageing (sigh), I can see her hands in my mind's eye. I can picture how she filed her nails and put on lotion. I can also distinctly remember her hands anxiously clenched in her lap while riding with me when I was learning to drive!

Looking back now, I can really appreciate all that she did with her hands. Hands that cared for numerous children- changing diapers, wiping noses, caring for "owies," doing finger plays. Hands that made delicious meals and washed countless dishes. Hands that gestured wildly while she talked. Hands that wrote many letters to family and friends. Hands that cared for the sick and brought comfort to those in need. She wasn't perfect, but she did care a lot about people. I learned a lot about servanthood just by watching her serve her family, neighbors, and community. What a tremendous legacy!

Although I vowed as an angry adolescent that I would never be like my mother, I am quite pleased now to consider that I might share some of her attributes. In those moments when I miss her, I often look down at my own hands and think about all that her hands did for me. And then I wonder...are my hands helping others?

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for Me.'" Matthew 25: 35-40