Mother's Hands

My Mom and I
I am getting older, it's a fact, maybe a fact I don't particularly enjoy, but I cannot hide from it, because the hands show it. When in my late twenties, my mother stopped by the house to rock the babies, and have a cup of coffee with me.  After the children went  off for naps, we visited, and she looked down at her hands, and said, "I'm old, Marsha.  My skin is frail and tears easily. I have bruise marks, and they are old.  I once had pretty hands, my best feature really, and now that is gone."  I can relate, because that is where I am now, but then I remembered my reaction to my Mom's remarks.  She had beautiful hands.  Yes, they had the marks of age, but they were beautiful to me, because they sewed my dresses, held me when I was a baby and changed my diapers. They prepared my food and kneaded dough and gave me cinnamon rolls after school;  they tenderly cradled her grandchildren, but greatest of all  they folded in prayer  for me and my sister, brothers, and all her grandchildren.  They were beautiful hands. 

What we see in ourselves, isn't necessarily what  other's see  in us. That is good to remember.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Beautiful, Thanks for sharing!
December 13, 2011 at 8:34 AM
Marsha Turner said…
You're very welcome, and thank you for stopping in to read.
December 13, 2011 at 8:56 AM
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