Mama's Hands

This morning I was reminded of my Mama's hands. Her hands did so much during her 85 years of life it was no wonder her hands were worn and ragged. Arthritis bent and swelled her finger joints. The veins were dark and raised. But to me they were the most beautiful hands to hold or be held by.

When I was six I loved when Mama would rub my back to help me go to sleep. It was the best feeling ever and I never wanted her to stop.

When my first son was born, Mama came to our house and spent the first week. But, she didn't just come. It was the week she had scheduled having her teeth pulled. She came anyway. I remember her holding ice to her jaw, being in terrible pain, yet she helped me learn to care for a newborn that week.

Her hands picked raspberries off the prickly vines around her garden. She shared the bountiful produce she and Daddy raised in their huge garden with everyone. Her hands dug in the dirt, pulling out weeds, uncovering the radishes and beets and carrots. Mama picked beans, plucking off bugs, and husked ears of corn until it became too painful.

Mama masterfully used a needle to repair the most worn out coveralls so they could serve another year. Nothing in her house was wasted. Old clothes were transformed into popular attire for the 70s. It didn't take much fabric to make my mini skirts. She turned scraps into quilts for her grandchildren.

In the kitchen, Mama's hands were spectacular. She made pies, angel food cakes, and dozens of cookies and candies for the holidays. She started early in December and filled her freezer with containers of goodies. Then the week of Christmas she would make platters of the assortments to delight shut-ins and say thank you to friends, neighbors, the pastor, and Daddy's coworkers. Her noodles were heavenly and she loved trying new recipes she heard on the radio or saw in a Wallaces Farmer.

I'd love to hold her crippled hands once more. A mother's hands are evidence of her heart. So loving, so caring, so beautiful.

"I bowed my head in grief as though weeping for my mother," (Psalm 35:14b NIV).