I recently had the opportunity to observe, up close, my mother's hand as she lay still and quiet. I wondered what other people saw, when they looked at that hand. It is an elderly hand, one that has seen a lot of hard use over the 97 years it has served her. It is fragile, worn, chapped, swollen, and a little weary from all the work that has been accomplished, and it is ready to have some well deserved rest from its labors, just as my mother is.
But I don't see any of that as I gaze at her today. Instead, here is what I see when I look at my mother's hand.
I see the hand that lifted me up every time I have fallen in life. I see the hand that looks to me to help her up now when she struggles.
I see the hand that made me pancakes every morning before school because that was the only thing I would eat. I see the hand that now thankfully eats what I prepare each night, happy it is not the job of those hands any longer.
I see the hand that held me tight while reading my bedtime story. I see the hand that holds her crossword puzzle when I go to bed and she still wants to be up.
I see the hand that held me tighter when my dad died. It is the hand that still holds me tight when we remember him together.
I see the hand that reached out to me a thousand times when we were crossing the street to keep me safe. I see the hand that now reaches for mine to help her safely cross the street or the yard.
I see the hand that laid cold compresses on my forehead when I had a crushing migraine, and held the book she would quietly read to me to distract me from the pain. I see the hand that reaches for mine when she is ill and needs me more than I ever imagined she would need anyone.
I see the hand that taught me to pray, holding my hands together so I would learn to be quietly reflective in my faith. I see the hand that holds her Bible now, quietly reading it through once again, joyfully finding something new to revel over in each chapter.
I see the hand that has held a telephone for a thousand hours as she listened to me work through the tribulations of my life. I see the hand that now hands her i-Phone to me because she needs me to fix it once again.
I see the hand that made amazing Halloween costumes, and the hand that painted beautiful oils on canvas. I see the hand that directed a little church choir, and the hand that held music for me to sing when I was learning. I see the hand of someone who quietly spends two hours listening to my band figure out how to start and end a song she has heard a thousand times, just because she enjoys being with me.
I see the hand of someone who welcomed me into her heart as her very own, and who has quietly, steadfastly loved me every single day since. My mother's love is a gift that cannot ever be matched, and a lot of that love has come through her hands as she lived her joyful servant life.
When I look at my mother's hand, I don't see the flaws that others may see. I see the beautiful hand of grace, and its just perfect.
