Mom's Hands
"You have your mom's hands!" I looked down at my hands, unsure what to say. It was the second time someone said those words last weekend. I noticed my long, thin fingers and knobby knuckles, slightly deformed from jammed fingers, childhood adventures, and a few years of rock climbing. One of my fingers points slightly to the left. I'm not sure when that happened, but I am sure it came from a stubborn, competitive attempt to win at some childhood game or dare.
My mom's hands are neither small nor large. They always seemed just the right size to me. She, too, has knobby knuckles from childhood games, teenage adventures, and hard work on the farm. I remember a story Mom told me once about getting a jammed finger while playing (I think at school and I think the game was tetherball). The nurse put her finger in a a jar of some antiseptic or peroxide and Mom's finger swelled to the point she couldn't get her finger out of the jar.
Mom's hands are not rough, but they are the hands of a hard worker. She grew up on a farm, de-tassling corn before school, cooking for farm hands, and caring for animals. Then she worked hard in high school at the local Dairy Queen. In my childhood eyes, Mom's hands could do or make anything! She sewed most of my clothes for the first few years of my life. I remember holding her hand and feeling the rough callouses the sewing and quilting needles left on her fingers. I remember like it was yesterday watching Mom's hands deftly piece together beautiful quilts. I used to lay under her quilt rack and watch the needles move in and out as Mom and her friends quilted and chatted.
I remember being amazed in the kitchen as Mom worked to make wonderful meals. I never did master the art of kneading bread. I used to watch Mom's strong hands work the dough and I'll never enjoy any bread as much as I love my mother's warm, homemade bread fresh out of the oven.
Mom's hands were strong and capable. They were also gentle and caring. I loved feeling her hands run gently through my long blond childhood curls. I always felt safe with her hands on me. Those hands held her own five children and probably hundreds of other children over the years. Mom always loved children... and they always love her. She has cared for many children not her own... always treating each one as if they were the most precious child in the world.
I remember gentleness in Mom's hands when Great Grandma Lowder was elderly and frail. She cared patiently for Grandma, attending to her every need with love and deep compassion. Grandma loved hymns and knew the words to nearly every one in the hymnbook. She couldn't carry a tune if she had a bucket, but Mom's fingers danced playfully over the keys of the old piano in our living room and Mom's voice sang clear and sweet for Grandma Lowder. At the end of many hymns there was a pause and Grandma would tell a story about this person or that person... or a time down at "the home", the orphanage where Great Grandpa worked as a baker.
Mom's hands are always generous, never failing to serve wherever an opportunity presented itself. From large dinners feeding dozens to sewing hats for babies being medi-flighted to hospitals in Africa, Mom's hands found ways to give above and beyond what seemed imaginable. I don't remember ever seeing her hands idle, but I also don't remember ever seeing her fidget. She always seemed the perfect balance of work and rest. She knew the value of a dollar and her hands were thrifty, creative, and attentive to detail.
When I think of my mom's hands, I think of courage, hard work, generosity, creativity, gentleness, strength, fun, and compassion. I think of all the times her hands have comforted me, encouraged me, challenged me, taught me, and loved me. I think of how very many talents, gifts, and skills Mom has and all the ways she uses her hands to build God's Kingdom here on earth.
I know this isn't really what people are talking about when they say I have my mom's hands. But I hope this is what my hands will be like. I do hope I have my mom's hard-working, gentle, recklessly generous, strong, capable hands that are never fidgety and always looking for ways to build the Kingdom in small ways.
My mom's hands are neither small nor large. They always seemed just the right size to me. She, too, has knobby knuckles from childhood games, teenage adventures, and hard work on the farm. I remember a story Mom told me once about getting a jammed finger while playing (I think at school and I think the game was tetherball). The nurse put her finger in a a jar of some antiseptic or peroxide and Mom's finger swelled to the point she couldn't get her finger out of the jar.
Mom's hands are not rough, but they are the hands of a hard worker. She grew up on a farm, de-tassling corn before school, cooking for farm hands, and caring for animals. Then she worked hard in high school at the local Dairy Queen. In my childhood eyes, Mom's hands could do or make anything! She sewed most of my clothes for the first few years of my life. I remember holding her hand and feeling the rough callouses the sewing and quilting needles left on her fingers. I remember like it was yesterday watching Mom's hands deftly piece together beautiful quilts. I used to lay under her quilt rack and watch the needles move in and out as Mom and her friends quilted and chatted.
I remember being amazed in the kitchen as Mom worked to make wonderful meals. I never did master the art of kneading bread. I used to watch Mom's strong hands work the dough and I'll never enjoy any bread as much as I love my mother's warm, homemade bread fresh out of the oven.
Mom's hands were strong and capable. They were also gentle and caring. I loved feeling her hands run gently through my long blond childhood curls. I always felt safe with her hands on me. Those hands held her own five children and probably hundreds of other children over the years. Mom always loved children... and they always love her. She has cared for many children not her own... always treating each one as if they were the most precious child in the world.
I remember gentleness in Mom's hands when Great Grandma Lowder was elderly and frail. She cared patiently for Grandma, attending to her every need with love and deep compassion. Grandma loved hymns and knew the words to nearly every one in the hymnbook. She couldn't carry a tune if she had a bucket, but Mom's fingers danced playfully over the keys of the old piano in our living room and Mom's voice sang clear and sweet for Grandma Lowder. At the end of many hymns there was a pause and Grandma would tell a story about this person or that person... or a time down at "the home", the orphanage where Great Grandpa worked as a baker.
Mom's hands are always generous, never failing to serve wherever an opportunity presented itself. From large dinners feeding dozens to sewing hats for babies being medi-flighted to hospitals in Africa, Mom's hands found ways to give above and beyond what seemed imaginable. I don't remember ever seeing her hands idle, but I also don't remember ever seeing her fidget. She always seemed the perfect balance of work and rest. She knew the value of a dollar and her hands were thrifty, creative, and attentive to detail.
When I think of my mom's hands, I think of courage, hard work, generosity, creativity, gentleness, strength, fun, and compassion. I think of all the times her hands have comforted me, encouraged me, challenged me, taught me, and loved me. I think of how very many talents, gifts, and skills Mom has and all the ways she uses her hands to build God's Kingdom here on earth.
I know this isn't really what people are talking about when they say I have my mom's hands. But I hope this is what my hands will be like. I do hope I have my mom's hard-working, gentle, recklessly generous, strong, capable hands that are never fidgety and always looking for ways to build the Kingdom in small ways.
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