My Mother's Hands

I looked down the other day and saw my mother’s hands. They were a bit chapped from the cold winter   weather, the finger nails had a few jagged edges and there were some new freckles and wrinkles.

Yet, these hands rocked me as an infant, helped me cross the street (after looking both ways) on the walk to school, and tied my shoes, over and over again.

These hands clapped the loudest at my dance recital, wrote funny notes on my lunch napkins and squeezed me tight during the Lord’s Prayer in church.

These hands baked chocolate chip cookies (with an extra dash of love), braided my hair and pulled the seatbelt tighter when I was learning to drive.

These hands wiped tears from her eyes the first time she caught a glimpse of me in my wedding dress, showed me how to bath my own babies and pick up the phone to find out what is happening in North Carolina.

These imperfect hands have left a perfectly loving impression on me, as these are my mother’s hands.

I looked down the other day and saw my mother’s hands. The funny, yet scary thing was that my mother’s hands were attached to my arms.

I can only hope that someday Molly looks down and sees my hands.

True confession of the day:  I wish my mom lived closer today!