His Mothers Hands

A friend from my home town lost his mother this past week. She was 84, healthy and taking no medications which is amazing for this day and age. Her passing was, in my book, ideal. Peaceful, at home, no illness, quick and after living a long, fulfilled, love-filled life.

In talking with my friend, he mentioned his mothers hands. She was embarrassed of her hands. They were misshaped, worn and wrinkled with years of work as a farmers wife and a country mother. Hands like hers should be admired and revered as badges of an honorable, well-lived life.

I found this poem that was befitting...

My Mothers Hands author unknown

I held her hands in mine last night
they looked so thin and worn
but they held mine just as tightly
as the day that I was born.

Those gentle and expressive hands
etched by work and care
have folded over my bedside
many times in humble prayer.

They've washed for me, they've fed me
they've helped me be a man.
There's something of our Lord, Himself
in every mother's hands.